The Legacy Line
by JustLike2Write
Summary: Dean disappears, and it's up to Sam and Bobby to find him before he ends up a victim of a group searching for original legacy line. This is a stand alone story.
1. Chapter 1

**The Legacy Line**

Spoilers: Yes probably, seasons 1-6, somewhere between — you pick

Warnings: violence, language, research, secret societies, it's just a story... don't overthink it.

Summary: Dean disappears, and it's up to Sam and Bobby to find him before he ends up a victim of a group searching for original legacy line.

This has not been beta'ed, accept the typos as part of the creative process. I always finish a story to its completion before I post. And, my stories have to sleep a few weeks before they see the light of day – sometimes things just aren't as good as they first seem and rewrites are always necessary. My stories tend to be long... 40 pages or more. Please remember this is fiction — and fiction includes: fake towns, fake people, fake medical procedures, fake assumptions and nonfiction rules do not apply. Main characters aren't mine, no money is being made… just lost time writing due to crappy internet services and weather.

 **Chapter 1**

Long days and longer nights were always a part of the hunt and at times left Sam and Dean exhausted. The frequency of events had intensified –- and the need for hunters grew –- even as their numbers decreased due to the violent and deadly nature of the job.

Against common sense and logic, Dean and Sam continued their drive toward Hastings, a small town just south of Elk, South Dakota. Dean had argued that pushing themselves to the next town was the best route, after all, he was the one driving, and the damn car was his. Sam retaliated and raised several scientific facts about sleep deprivation and exhaustion: after 24 hours impaired coordination, memory, and judgment were affected; at 36 hours blood pressure and emotions were compromised; and after 48 hours disorientation and microsleeps would occur. Sam and Dean were both pushing the 36-hour mark and Sam and pointed to several hotels with flashing vacancy signs. What had started as light banter had turned to bitter frustration as Dean pressed the gas and Sam pointed toward another vacancy sign. Wisely — after Dean threatened to remove an appendage — Sam grew quiet as the long arduous drive continued. He stared out the window, slumped against the passenger seat, right elbow on the armrest of the door and both hands in his lap.

Sam had been wearing the same clothes for three days and he knew once they reached Hastings, that he would have to purchase a new pair of shoes. Having run through a field of cow shit coupled with a trip through the sewer system in Red River, the stench in the car had grown overwhelming after 300 miles. Sam hid his smile as Dean rolled down the window again. Running around barefoot was not an option, not with the weather threatening to turn. Rain and snow showers were headed their way. Sam was sure the reason for Dean's occasional clearing of his throat was due to the stink of shit stuck on Sam's shoes. There was something akin to satisfaction in Sam's smile, knowing as soon as they reached Hastings, Dean would be searching for carpet cleaner, new floor mats, and air freshener.

The stench would not be a problem had Dean agreed to stop for the night. Hence Sam's passive aggressive tactic to annoy the shit out of his brother. If Sam was going to go without sleep for another night, Dean was going to have his car smelling like the inside of well-used Honey Bucket.

They had tried listening to their dad's music collection, but the enjoyment had worn off with the lack of sleep and while ACDC was a classic, the electric guitar, drums and grating voice could only push them so far. Having the windows cracked not only helped with the stench, but it had helped keep them awake. If Dean could be a jackass, so could Sam. The fresh air was enough to awaken tired nerves, but also continued to cause friction as the drive increased in distance and another small town and vacant hotel was left behind. All in a gallant effort to make it to Hastings before another body was discovered.

Sam did not know how Dean did it — manhandle the long hours. Studying for finals at the end of semesters had taught Sam how to pull all-nighters, but three days and a strenuous hunt was pushing it. Sam looked toward Dean and watched jaw muscles tense and relax as he rubbed his chin with is left hand, his elbow rested on the window well.

Mile markers bowed, and the wind swept beneath the car as they sped by.

Once the first few drops of rain hit the windshield, Dean flipped on the wipers and took a deep breath before the full force of the rainstorm hit. At this point, pride was keeping him awake, not the warm coffee tucked carefully between his thighs, or the fresh air rushing through the narrow gap in the window. Sam clenched his jaw. Being stubborn was a Winchester trait, and one that had been carefully cultivated through many generations, and as a result had become their most dominant characteristic.

Sam scratched his jaw, leaned back, and watched the windshield wipers work in overdrive.

Dean had received an urgent call from Bobby about the bodies of four young men with similar spinal injuries. While the initial reports classified each death as accidental, the number of bodies were increasing. All were discovered within close proximity. They all shared a similar puncture wound to their spines. Bobby had not elaborated on the phone but promised an eye-opening story once they reached their destination. Dean being Dean, had fueled himself up with coffee and Red Bull and ignored everything practical. While he had the heart of a lion when it came to his family, he was also the dumb-shit-stubborn-as-fuck bull trapped in a china shop — Sam simply waited for the inevitable.

"Shit," Dean sighed when the lights on the Impala flickered. He leaned forward, checked the lights on the dash, and then carefully guided the car off the road as the engine stalled.

"What happened?" Sam sat upright and watched Dean slip the car into park and flip on the hazard lights.

Baby had been purring like a kitten, the tank was nearly full, and Dean maintained her engine like he did his guns, only better. The damn engine had more polish than Steinbeck's first novel.

Dean grabbed a flashlight from the jockey box and then opened the door. Rain continued to pour, and it slammed against the windshield and hood as gusts of wind picked up. Sam watched the mile marker next to his door bend as the reflector caught a glimpse of the vanishing moonlight. He took a deep breath as Dean lifted the hood. Sam opened his door and stepped into the weather. He wrapped his jacket around himself when the cold wind took him by surprise.

"What is it?" Sam asked, and watched Dean check the battery connections. Sam tucked his head toward his right shoulder as another gust of wind forced the rain toward them. "Maybe we should wait in the car until the weather clears."

"Sonofabitch." Dean bit on the end of the flashlight to free his hand and checked the battery connections and then checked the fuel line. He paused a moment, grabbed the flashlight from his mouth, took a deep breath, and pushed himself away from the grill. He ran his hand over his face, wiping the rain from his brow, and clenched his jaw.

"You know, if we'd stopped and got gas in the morning... after a night's rest, you probably would've seen that when you checked her oil in the morning." Sam raised his eyebrows and pressed his lips into a tight smile.

"Really?" Dean turned, and looked at Sam. "You want to start that now?" His masseter muscles flexed, and he breathed through his nose.

"Dean, we're out in the middle of nowhere. It's pouring rain. The car is dead. We're both exhausted, and I don't know about you — but I'm hungry." Sam shrugged, swallowed, and flared his nostrils as he took a deep breath. "You always do this." He signed, looked toward the road as another gust of wind caused the branches on the trees to moan and snap. He shoved his hands into his pockets, clenched his fists, and pulled his shoulders tight. "You're not dad — you don't have to do everything like him."

"I'm not having an Oprah moment with you right now!" Dean placed his hands on the hood and slammed it closed. He shoved his left hand into his pocket and then flashed his light down the road. The rain bounced off the road as it hit, and a gust of wind continued to push through trees, causing them to bend and bow with the torrent. A branch snapped and fell to the ground. Dean looked from the branch and back to Sam. "Bobby asked us for help — you want to stop at a Holiday Inn and get your nails done — fine — I'll drop you off at the next vacancy — but in the meantime, I'm going to walk to the next town and grab a part."

"Dean —"

"What?" Dean frowned and clenched his jaw. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. "How many times has Bobby called us for help?"

Sam shrugged. "I don't know." He winced against the onslaught of rain.

"Try never — he always calls Jo or Harry, but he never calls us — he sends us cases, gives us shit when things to south, but he never asked us for help — that's why I haven't stopped for some shuteye."

"You think he's in trouble?"

"I don't know what to think — but I do know that if he's askin' us for help," Dean shrugged, "he needs it, or something we have."

"Dad's journal?"

Dean frowned as his frustration grew. "I don't know, Sam, but I want to get to Hastings to find out." He clenched his jaw and then spotted headlights in the distance. "Stay with the car — I'll call if there's a problem."

Sam took a deep breath as Dean started the journey toward town. Sam exhaled and chewed his bottom lip. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen a road sign. He ran his fingers through wet hair and turned back toward the car. For a moment the rain paused, nearly stopped before a loud crack of thunder echoed, and another downpour started. He slipped into the passenger seat of the Impala and grabbed the blanket folded on the back seat to wrap up in. He could barely see the movement of Dean's flashlight as he continued toward town. The light flashed to the right as another branch snapped and fell.

The oncoming headlights outlined Dean's form as he walked, and Sam wiped the inside of the window to improve his view. He hoped the driver would stop, ask if Dean needed assistance, hell, have an extra part in the trunk of their car. Sam sighed as the car drew closer, lights shown brighter, but when Dean's form disappeared into the darkness he sighed. Sam squinted as the car drove passed, sending rainwater toward the car.

Sam frowned, leaned closer to the windshield and wiped at the condensation, frantically he grabbed the door-handle, pushed it open and nearly fell as he stepped from the car. "Dean!" He dropped the blanket he ran toward his brother. "Dean!"

Dean flashed his light toward his right as another tree branch succumb to the harsh winds. The cracking and snapping of branches were dulled by the weather's overwhelming presence. He squinted as the car drew closer and the lights grew more intense. While he hoped they might stop, a lifetime of experience reassured him that they –- whoever they were –- would continue their course. Another roll of thunder sent a torrent of wind and rain toward him, and he did his best to avoid the onslaught by hunching his shoulders and keeping his arms tight against his sides, though his jacket was waterproof, it wasn't warm. Four miles to the next town. While it hadn't seemed like a long distance back at the car he wished he had stopped for he night like Sam had suggested. Pride had a way of overruling Dean's sensibilities — it was a character trait he recognized — usually after the fact, and one that he tried to ignore.

Dean clenched his jaw and continued. He brought his left arm up to protect his eyes as the car drew closer and without slowing drove passed. He barely had time to register the high-pitched squeal of a wet fan-belt before he was struck. The black Buick's breaks squealed as Dean was hit on his left side, sending him crashing over the hood and into the windshield as a flash of lightning lit the sky. The glass broke but never shattered. The sudden stop had him rolling off the hood and onto the road's shoulder. Dean gasped for air and struggled to push himself onto his elbows and knees as adrenalin peeked. He coughed and then groaned as nerves took inventory of his injuries. He pressed his forehead against his forearms, closed his eyes and focused his efforts on breathing. Blood, mixed with rain, flowed freely from a gash above his left eye and across his face.

Car doors were opened, and voices echoed. Two sets of hands grabbed Dean by his upper arms and started to drag him toward the car. He struggled, looked up, but was met with blurred vision and heavy rain. He tried to pull his arms from their grip, and then gasped when he was forced to the ground onto his belly. He heard Sam call his name as his hands were quickly cuffed behind his back. He was lifted by his shoulders, forced into the back seat of the car and the door was slammed shut behind him. Someone shoved him upright and forced a black hood over his head. He kicked the person seated next to him and was rewarded suddenly with his head shoved against the window.

"Do that again and I'll make sure you never walk again." The stranger kept his hand against Dean's right cheek and scalp.

"Fuck you," Dean said, and gasped through the hood. The material moved as he inhaled and exhaled, his breaths frantic. Blood from the cut above his left eye soaked through the cotton material and smeared against the window glass.

The stranger pulled his hand away and Dean slumped against the door. His left side burned in agony, as well as his shoulder, and hip. He could feel his hands pulse as the lacerations and road rash flared. His fingers felt slick. He continued to have a difficult time catching his breath. He could hear the hum of the engine, the squeal of the fan belt, and tires against the pavement.

Thunder again roared, and the window wipers were flipped to high speed.

"Who are you?" Dean asked and shifted as the pain of his shoulder grew more intense. He heard someone chuckle and then the radio was turned to a sports station.

"Best if you don't ask questions." The voice had a hint of an accent and came from the front passenger seat. The seat squeaked beneath his weight as he shifted. "Gag him."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Sam ran as fast as he could toward the car, but he was too far away and watched helplessly with the aid of lightning as Dean was shoved into the back seat. The car doors were slammed shut, the car was shifted into gear, and the gas pressed. Sam paused, arms raised, and watched the driver tip his hat in Sam's direction before speeding by.

Another roll of thunder echoed, and Sam took a deep breath as he watched the taillights of the car disappear into the distance. He folded his fingers behind his head and sighed. His chest tightened, and he ran his hands through his hair. He jumped when a flash of lightning fishtailed across the sky and disappeared beyond the tree line. Soaking wet, he ran back to the car and slipped into the driver's seat, grabbed the spare key, and tried to start the engine.

"Shit!" Sam slapped the steering wheel. He grabbed his phone and dialed Bobby. Drenched, Sam sat in the driver's seat, left elbow on the window well, phone pressed against his ear. "Come on, Bobby," he said, "answer the damn phone."

Sam ran his right hand over his face when the fourth ring echoed in his ear. He was about to give up when he heard Bobby's greeting. "Thank God!" Sam sighed and said, "Dean's gone."

Despite the rain, Sam stepped outside of the car to expel his excess energy as he shared his story with Bobby. Sam paced back and forth along the length of the Impala. He ran his hands through his hair and listened to Bobby calm him down while gaining a better understanding of what might have happened and where he was located. Sam paused mid-stride, nodded and listened while Bobby talked him down, advised him against doing anything until Bobby got there, and most importantly, evaluate what he had seen. At this point, Sam knew more than anyone else, and Bobby encouraged him to think about the details.

Sam looked at his watch, placed his hand on his hip, and reaffirmed, "Three hours at the most?" He nodded again, rubbed his eyes with his finger and thumb, and looked up the road. "No... I'll wait... thanks, Bobby." Sam hung up the phone, took a deep breath and retook his seat in the driver's seat. He rubbed his forehead and then watched the rain pelt the windshield as darkness swallowed him.

The Impala rocked as a gust of wind picked up.

It was the nature of the job, but waiting three hours while Dean was in the wind didn't sit well. Sam thought about the face of the driver, the hat he wore, and the dashboard lights that illuminated both the driver and the passenger: Dean pressed against the window, head covered. Sam ran a hand over his face, leaned back and tried to calm his breathing. He sighed, took a deep breath and envisioned the moment he rushed from the car. Despite the darkness, Sam had seen Dean's flashlight flip up and toward the sky and then fall back toward the ground. The light had gone out. But Sam had seen Dean's abduction as the violent lightning strikes fishtailed.

The damn car had been following the truck and travel trailer without its lights on; the fog lights had been blackened out — Dean never saw them coming.

Sam sat up, rubbed his palms on his thighs, and clenched his jaw. He reached for the jockey box and grabbed his father's journal. Using the extra flashlight, he flipped through the pages. He tore a blank page from the back and started to list the things he could remember, carefully thought about what he had seen, what he had heard, and what he could smell.

Sam shifted as the cold caused his hand to cramp as he wrote. He shook his hand, clenched his jaw, and looked outside before glancing at his watch. Every nerve in his body flared. His stomach cramped, his head continued to swim, and he sighed when his bladder ordered him to attention. He took a deep breath, opened the car door and tossed the journal and pencil onto the passenger seat. He walked toward the tree line, careful of the gravel shoulder and relieved himself against a sugar pine tree. Taking a deep breath, he finished and turned back toward the car in time to see another set of headlights. Sam wiped his hands on his jeans and walked back toward the car.

The driver flashed their lights as they approached, rolled their window down, and slowed to a stop. "You Sam?" the woman asked. She rested her left arm on the window-well as Sam walked toward her. Her brown hair had been clasped into a loose bun at the base of her skull, white strands fell loose around the right side of her face and a long scar ran from the corner of her mouth and disappeared behind her right ear. Crow's feet and laugh lines played evidence to a long life filled with joy and tears.

"You are?" Sam asked, and stood far enough away from the truck to defend himself.

The woman smiled, and the long scar exaggerated. "A friend of Bobby's," she said, "you can call me Doc." She shifted the old Ford, with a veterinary box in the bed, into drive and pulled up in front of the Impala. She put the truck into park, left the lights on, and slipped out. She was dressed in jeans with oil stains across the thighs, a white tank top that accentuated her breasts and beer belly, and a thick brown coat that added bulk to her shoulders.

Sam shook her hand and watched her lift the hood of the Impala. "Bobby didn't say he was sending somebody." He crossed his arms over his chest and watched her set to work on the engine.

"He called me — said one of his boys was stuck and needed some help because the weather was turning. He didn't want you out here alone." She turned and smiled at him. "I'm going to leave that last sentence alone." She chuckled and leaned back over the engine.

Sam swallowed. "He tell you anything else?" He shifted his feet like a kid about to get scolded.

Doc nodded, walked back toward her truck and pulled a toolbox from behind the driver's seat. "This fix will get you into town, but you'll have to have someone take a look at your fuel line." She handed Sam the toolbox, opened the lid, and used his hands as a shelf before she returned to work on the engine. "I've known Bobby since grade school," she said, and loosened a bolt. "He was my first boyfriend," she chuckled and looked toward Sam.

Sam handed her a wrench from the toolbox.

"He's good people. A bit prickly — but when you get to know him you realize he's a big ol' teddy bear." She reattached the part and tightened the bolt. "Bobby said he'd meet you at the Blue Roan Motel in town — it's just a few miles up the road, first place on the right past the high school." She tossed the wrench into the toolbox and then wiped her hands on her pants before she took the box from Sam. "Start her up, see how's she's running."

Sam nodded and took a step passed her, but she grabbed his right arm and brought him to a halt.

"Bobby didn't tell me all the details, but he sounded pretty damn frantic on the phone — Bobby doesn't do frantic — hell, the closest he's ever come was when he spilled cheap beer on a buffalo bone pocketknife." She released his arm and looked toward her truck before looking up at Sam. She looked like she might say something else, but paused, and then nodded. "I'll follow you into town to make sure you get there." She turned and placed the toolbox behind the driver's seat of her truck and slipped inside the cab. She waited until Sam had started up the Impala before she cranked the wheel to the right and drove passed. She waved toward Sam, nodded when he shifted the car into drive and headed toward town.

The Blue Roan Motel was outdated the moment the contractor hammered the last nail. The U-shaped motel had originally been painted white and was in the process of an upgrade. Paint chips littered the unattended flowerbeds that rested beneath each of the room windows. Patched siding and paint samples were evident along each section. The doors had been updated with new numbers and locks, and the trim around the windows had been replaced. There were a few cars parked out front: a blue minivan with family decals in the back window, and a red convertible was parked next to a blue Camry.

A vacancy sign flashed in the manager's office window. Sam parked out front and then glanced at the piles of painting supplies next to the front door. A bell chimed as he walked in, and the manager looked up from behind the oversized desk designed to keep staff in and guests out. He smiled and nodded toward Sam from behind the tall counter. Display racks filled with local attractions rested against the wood paneling to the right. A plastic plant covered in dust, was set upon a small end table with a chewed front leg in the far-left corner. Pictures rested on the floor leaning against the walls: local scenery by a local photographer. The blue and brown carpet with swirls in the pattern was in need of replacement. Bare spots were evident beneath the door and in front of the desk.

"Can I help you?" The manager pulled a pencil from behind his right ear and grabbed his registry. "You'll have to excuse the mess — been remodelin' the place for a couple months."

"I'd like a room," Sam said, and looked toward the stacks of papers that had been organized and piled by the business phone. He leaned forward and rested his left elbow on the privacy shelf. "You the new owner?" He wasn't in the mood for small talk, and he cared less about the renovations to a building that needed more than paint and living plants.

Sam shifted when he heard the manager mumble something about paint variations and renovation costs. Sam looked out the window, watched for Bobby, and then turned when he heard the sound of a key being dropped on the counter.

The manager slipped a piece of paper before him along with a pen. "We ain't quite ready for key cards just yet."

Sam signed the paper and took the key.

"Room 123." The manager pointed toward the last room across from the his office.

Sam raised his eyebrows, forced a tight smile, and nodded. "Thanks," he said, and left.

The rain continued to pour and pool in pot holes and along the edges of the pavement. Sam parked in front of the door, grabbed his phone, travel bag, and then slipped out of the Impala and walked toward his room. The air smelt clean as the ozone cleared. Another gust of wind caused the branches of the nearby trees to groan in submission. Sam opened the door and quickly shut it, before he tossed his belongings onto the bed closest the door. He paused a moment, collected his thoughts and then opened the curtains enough to watch the parking lot. He looked at his watch and sighed as he took a seat on the edge of the bed.

Still wet, he ran his fingers through his hair and battled the scenarios that filled his mind. He clenched his jaw as he thought about his brother. Who had taken him? Why? Would they would find him in time? Who knew where they would be at that specific time? Sam stood abruptly and rubbed the back of his neck. He grabbed his father's journal, the map of the surrounding areas, and his computer. He placed everything on the small round table that was tucked in the corner of the room surrounded by two chairs. He pulled the table and moved it beneath the picture window that overlooked the parking lot. He grabbed the lamp from the end table between the two beds, placed it on the round table, and set to work.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

The back-left passenger side door was opened, and Dean felt someone grab the collar of his jacket and yank him from the vehicle. He landed with a yelp onto his left side in a puddle and felt the injury to his shoulder, ribs, and hip ignite. He gasped though the hood and gag and felt rainwater soak his already damp clothes. Someone grabbed his right bicep and he groaned through the pain as they pulled him to his knees. He leaned forward, haunches resting on his heels, head and shoulders bowed. He could hear the wind through the branches, the squeak of a door in the distance, and the muttering of voices above. Dean winced as he took a shallow breath and tried to clear his head.

There were three people surrounding him. The same three that ran him over and tossed him into the car. He heard someone clear his throat and spit. Someone else chuckled and scraped the mud with his boot as he moved. Dean heard a yell come from his left, but the pounding of blood through his head made it difficult to comprehend what was being discussed. When one of the men grabbed his right arm and tried to pull him to his feet, Dean kicked and struck something. He was released and fell back as he heard his victim cry out and hit the ground with a thump.

"Sonofabitch!"

"Such a patsy, Red."

"Fucker's got steal toed boots on." Red rubbed his shin. He struggled to his feet and slapped the mud from his seat. "Asshole," he said, and then walked forward and grabbed Dean's right arm.

Dean struggled and fell backward, but someone else grabbed his left arm and he was dragged backward from the car. He grunted, and felt his head swim, as the left side of his chest ignited. He drug his heels, feeling the gravel give way beneath his boot heels.

"You sure this's him?"

Dean felt the bullnose of steps hit the back of his calves as he was drug over the tops and into a house.

"Won't know until the test comes back."

Dean felt the traction beneath his heels transition to a slick surface as he was drug through a kitchen. He heard dishes and silverware scraped along a plate. A toilet flushed, and water moved through the pipes. It was an older home. The pulling stopped for a moment. The grip on his arms tightened, and he heard a latch release. Dean felt cool air against his hands, and lower back as a door was opened. Suddenly, he was pulled backward again as the hollow steps of his captures echoed on wooden stairs leading to the basement. He continued to shift his legs and feet as he was dragged and eventually dropped onto his butt. He shuffled himself back, scrapping the ground with the heels of his boots, until he hit a solid surface behind him.

The mumbling of voices could be heard through the floorboards. Someone walked across the floor and it squeaked and groaned beneath their weight. A chair was pulled across the floor, and the sounds of a TV echoed.

"Get comfortable," Red chuckled and squatted in front of Dean, "you're goin' to be here a while." He stood, slapped his thighs, stepped forward and shoved Dean to the floor and hooked his cuffed hands to the U-bolt at the base of the wall.

Dean grunted and kicked his right foot toward his assailant and received a blow to the back of his left thigh for his effort.

"Don't push me, asshole," Red said, grabbing a fistful of Dean's jacket. "I meant what I said earlier." He shoved him toward the floor and took a step back.

"Let 'im alone." The threat forced Red upright.

"Screw you, Paddy," Red said and stepped forward.

Paddy chuckled. "Careful, son." He took a deep breath and sighed. "I've got no patience for children — particularly those who don't know their place." He slapped Red's shoulder. "Go upstairs and fetch the kit."

Dean heard the hollow thumps as Red walked up the steps. Paddy cleared his throat and stepped toward Dean.

Dean worked franticly to get himself upright. His Adam's apple moved up and down as he struggled to swallow around the gag and breathe through the mask. He heard Paddy squat when his knees cracked and rested his elbows on his knees with a sigh. Paddy rubbed his finger below his nose, scratched at his stubbled chin, and cleared his throat. "Play nice and you might survive this — I know who you are and what you can do."

Dean swallowed and rested his head against the wall. He took a deep breath and felt through the dirt for a nail, piece of wire, something to pick the handcuff lock. He heard Paddy chuckle again.

"Break out of those cuffs… I'll break your thumbs. Try and run… I'll bust your kneecaps, hurt one of my boys again and I'll make sure you piss blood." Paddy took a deep breath, sighed, and turned toward the stairs. "Don't go anywhere." The echoes of his steps up the staircase disappeared as he reached the top. The door was opened, and the click of a light was followed with the metal latch of the door closing.

Dean caught his breath in his throat. He tried to control his breathing as ribs protested. He dug the heel of his right boot into the ground and felt the dirt give way beneath the pressure. Surrounded in darkness, unable to call for help, and bound to a wall, he sighed and tried to listen to the voices above.

Sam jumped when he heard the pounding at his hotel room door.

"Sam," Bobby called, "you in there?"

Sam rubbed his face, stood, and answered the door. "Bobby." The sun was out, and it glistened off the standing puddles of rain water. The Impala and Bobby's truck were the only vehicles in the parking lot, and the hotel manager was scraping at paint chips three doors down.

"Start from the beginnin'," Bobby said. He entered the room, tossed a stack of files onto the bed by the door and turned toward Sam, hands on hips, jacket pulled back behind his wrists, and feet spread.

Sam started from the beginning. Explained what he saw, what he heard, and what he assumed happened.

Bobby nodded, reached for his files and started organizing papers on the bed. "Six months ago, I got a call from an old friend of mine in Elk, South Dakota." He laid out a map and handed a roll of tape toward Sam. "Tape that up over there." He pointed toward the wall next to the table. "He said a young man by the name of Billy Wynam had gone missin'." He grabbed a short stack of files and dropped them on the table. "I didn't think it was a case... until the body showed up fifty miles from Elk, matchin' the description of another body that was discovered a few months ago in Hastings."

Bobby took a deep breath and looked at Sam. "By the time I got to Elk, two more bodies had turned up not far from the first."

Sam grabbed a file and flipped through the pages.

Bobby grabbed the bill of his hat, scratched his scalp, and quickly put his hat back on. "Injuries varied," he sighed, "but every one of them had this on their back." He handed Sam an image.

Sam frowned. "Looks like a puncture wound… bite maybe?" He handed the image back and ran his hands through his hair. "Besides," he shrugged, "what's this got to do with finding Dean?" He crossed his arms overs his chest and took a deep breath.

Bobby sighed, clenched his jaw, and raised his eyebrows. "How much sleep 'ave you had the past few days?"

Sam shrugged, looked at his watch and sighed. "Couple hours, maybe."

"Well it shows," Bobby said, and pointed toward the map. He stepped forward, grabbed a marker from the table and circled the location of the first victim. He followed the trail of bodies he had been investigating and stopped by marking an X on the location where Dean had gone missing. He turned, tossed the marker onto the table, and looked at Sam. "See it now?"

Sam swallowed, took a deep breath and then retook his seat. He paused a moment, collected his thoughts as nerves fired. His pulse raced, and blood rushed through his ears. "You think whatever or whoever took those people took Dean?" He knew the answer but prayed for an argument on why his assumption was wrong.

"Hell," Bobby sighed, and crossed his arms over his chest. "When you called me last night I'd hoped this was a random act — shit, maybe Dean got picked up by a car full of cartoon porn stars." He pulled the chair from beneath the table and took a seat. "But in my gut, I knew this was the same case. Far as I can tell, all the victims fit the same profile: young — between the ages of 20 and 35, no history of physical or mental defects, northern European ancestry and…" he paused and met Sam's eyes, "first born sons."

Sam rubbed his thighs then rested his elbows on his knees and pressed his face to his hands. He stood suddenly and reached for the files. "So, what are we looking at? I didn't smell sulfur," he took a breath and paused a moment, "the car… when they drove by with Dean last night, their eyes weren't black — at least not what I saw. It's not a ghost — they're only tied to one object or location." He picked up the image of the wound and moved to his computer. "It doesn't look like any bite I've seen before—"

"Autopsy results," Bobby cleared his throat and rested his elbow on the table, hand hung over the edge, "stated that it was similar to what would be found with a lumbar puncture — but the way it was done was," he sighed with a shake of his head, "pretty damn brutal — toxicology reports show that drugs weren't involved."

"So, it's a bite, something that needs spinal fluid." Sam frowned and looked toward Bobby. "Maybe some kind of marrow eater?" He typed away at his computer, grabbed his father's journal and started to cross reference the information he had with the information he was missing.

"Autopsy reports show the cause of death in each of these cases was not the result of the bite or puncture — it's always something else: blood loss due to internal organ damage, blunt force trauma to the head."

Sam nodded. "So, we're looking for a creature of some kind."

"Few creatures travel in packs." Bobby sighed, rubbed his face and looked around the room. Sam hadn't slept, and papers were spread across the table, his shoes had been tossed and lay haphazardly by the foot of the bed. Sam was in need of a shave and shower. Bobby clenched his jaw, stood and walked to the bathroom vanity and started a cup of courtesy coffee. "I've been through all my research, even called in a few friends." He filled the two-cup coffee pot with water and then poured it into the reservoir. "Nobody's got nothin' on whatever this thing is — Hell, I've never seen anythin' like this before, 'cept maybe that time Jackson an' I were dealin' with that Moabie snake that sucked livers dry but that was," he paused as he ripped the plastic off the coffee and tossed it into the maker, "down in Florida a hundred years ago." Bobby sighed as he caught himself in the mirror. Dark circles hung below his eyes, and he realized he had no room to criticize Sam on the way he looked. Satisfied that the coffee started to drip he stepped around the corner and looked toward Sam who sat scanning the web, searching for anything that might lead him to his brother. "Sam?"

Sam didn't hear him, and he flipped through pages of creatures that might fit the profile. His hands shook as he worked, nerves frayed, exhaustion tugged at his vision, and his ability to continue running on fumes was running low. He rested his elbow on the table, looked again at his dad's journal and took a deep breath.

"Sam?" Bobby called louder, as he poured two cups of coffee and then stepped around the corner. "You with me?"

Sam paused, looked up, and watched Bobby walk toward him.

"What?" Sam asked, and took the cup that was handed him.

"Whether you realize it or not, you're the only one who's seen anythin' at all related to this case." Bobby took a seat on the end of the bed and locked eyes with Sam. "You're the only witness — you've got to tell me what you saw?"

Sam leaned back, shrugged his shoulders, and licked his lips. "It was dark," he said, and winced as his chest ached. He rubbed his breastbone and looked back toward his computer. He should have paid more attention to the driver, to the passengers. He should have argued with Dean about walking to town with the weather being so bad. Hell, Sam sighed, he should have run faster.

"I know you're tired, son. I know you're worried about your brother, but you've got to tell me what you saw — exactly what you saw." Bobby took a sip of his coffee and rested his elbows on his knees. "How many in the car?"

"You going to pull a Henry Spencer on me?" Sam smiled.

"I don't know who that is, but I'll work with it." Bobby returned the grin and waited for an answer. "How many, Sam?"

Sam closed his eyes, leaned back against the chair, and rubbed the tissue between his thumb and palm of his left hand. "Three," he said, "the one in the back seat with Dean had him pressed against the window — they'd covered his head with something – I couldn't see his face." He took a deep breath as his anxiety grew, "two in the front seats… the driver had a hat on… I could see the insignia from the dashboard light… New Holland." He winced and clenched his jaw as he tried to remember more. He opened his eyes and looked at Bobby. "It was dark."

"What about the guy in the passenger seat? Could you see anything about him?"

Sam closed his eyes again and frowned. He felt his heart race as blood pumped rapidly through his veins. "He was bigger," Sam's voice softened, "not fat, just big…" he paused a moment, collected his thoughts before he spoke again. "A tattoo…" He could see it all again, the movement, the faces, the lights from the dashboard illuminating the driver and passenger.

Bobby shifted himself forward as Sam continued.

"It's…" Sam winced, but kept his eyes closed as he pulled at the memory, "two eagles, back to back — there's something in their talons but I can't quite make it out — it's on his neck," he touched the spot below his left ear and opened his eyes to look at Bobby. "I've never seen anything like it."

Bobby raised his eyebrows, cleared his throat and took a pull from his coffee. He slapped Sam on the shoulder as he stood. "I knew you saw more than you thought you did." Bobby scratched the back of his neck and pointed toward Sam's computer. "Let's get to work."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Dean's fingernails were full of dirt and his fingertips bled from prying at the U-bolt that locked his cuffs into place behind his back. Muscles cramped, ribs protested, his shoulder throbbed, and his head hurt. He could feel the mask had dried against the wound on his forehead. He craved fresh air. The mask grew damp from his breathing and the stale air further aggravated his headache. He could hear voices through the floorboards, people walked from room to room, a toilet flushed and faucet ran, dishes were washed, chairs were shifted, the TV's channels were surfed, and the front door was opened and closed consistently.

Dean leaned against the wall, pulled his knees toward his chest and tried to make himself comfortable as the damp air, wet clothes, and pain pulled his attention away from the mumbling above. He thought about Sam. Had they taken him? Maybe Sam got Baby going, maybe he was looking for him. Maybe Sam found a comfortable hotel room with a warm bed, dry sheets, and a damn heater that worked. Dean shivered which caused his left side to ignite. He'd had broken ribs before, and he knew without a doubt at least one – if not two – were busted.

The latch to the basement door was unhooked and Dean froze, listening as the sounds of heavy footsteps traveled down the staircase. He swallowed, clenched his jaw, and waited. More steps followed, metal against metal sounded, furniture was moved, and then the sounds of items being shifted on a metal tray echoed. Dean shifted his hands and continued to pull at the cuffs. His heart raced and the unnerving actions of the sounds around him left his mind to panic about what he couldn't see. His breathing increased, and Dean shifted as the sounds around him amplified.

"Did you autoclave that?" Paddy said.

The echoes of someone else walking down the steps echoed. "That him?" the man said. He walked across the floor, a limp caused him to scrape his foot along the dirt.

A switch was flipped and the buzzing of lights sounded. More furniture was moved.

"Yeah," Paddy sighed. "I don't want Red in here for this." He shifted and there were more sounds of items being shifted... organized.

"He's young, but he's learning." The voice was older with a hint of a German accent.

Dean could smell cigar smoke.

"He's an asshole with an axe to grind — I don't want him here," Paddy insisted with a deep breath.

"He's got to learn how to do this —" The man shifted and took a seat. The chair squeaked beneath his weight.

"Red's impatient and entitled."

Dean shifted and dug his heels further into grooves he had created. He could feel his wrists abrading as he continued to struggle against the restraints. More footsteps down the hollow staircase.

"We ready?" Red said.

"You're going to sit this one out," Paddy said, as he walked closer to Dean.

"Oh, come on, man, I've got a steady hand — I can do this without paralyzing the SOB." Red chuckled. "Besides, how many legacy lines have we hit? What's the chance he'll be one?"

"Go upstairs and suck on a brew," Paddy's voice grew deep, "before I toss you over that table and drill a hole in your spine."

Dean heard Red swallow and shift nervously.

"The old guard in changing, Paddy, and one of these days it'll be me deciding who and when — not you and Geoff."

Dean heard Geoff stand, shuffle across the floor and drag his bad leg.

"That brand you carry has a history as old as the ages, boy." Geoff may have been old, but his voice carried a weight of authority that Dean knew to respect. It was the same tone his father had used with him. "Speak disrespectful to me again, I'll remove the brand — the same way our ancestors did."

Red swallowed again. His steps up the staircase were faster than his steps down.

Geoff chuckled and turned. "Perhaps your observation of the boy is correct." He shuffled across the floor.

"We're scraping the bottom of the barrel." Paddy walked toward Dean who shied away and pushed himself against the wall and continued to dig his heels into the floor.

"The Legacy has been first born heirs of direct descendants, Paddy, not women or abominations."

Dean kicked and struck something solid and heard a groan.

Geoff chuckled. "He's got some fight in him." He snapped his fingers, and someone moved from the corner of the room. "Help Paddy before he breaks something that cannot be fixed."

Dean kicked again, grunted through the fabric of the gag, and felt someone press his legs to the ground, someone else shoved him forward and released his cuffs from the U-bolt. Without mercy they pulled him by his arms and Dean sagged a moment. He struggled to gain his feet and fought the protest of abused muscles and broken ribs. His heart raced, blood pounded through his ears, and every nerve fired as he was drug across the floor. He smelled rubbing alcohol, strong cologne, and sweat. He grimaced and groaned as he was forced forward onto the padded surface of a surgical table. He clenched his jaw around the fabric of the gag and felt his arms wrenched up toward his shoulder blades. Dean gasped for air through the gag as his chest tightened. He moved his feet against the dirt floor and tried to find the strength to push himself away from the table. He felt someone grab the back of his shirt and jacket and push them up, exposing his back and cool air nipped at his skin. Dean clenched his jaw, fought hard for his footing and he felt a hand on the back of his right shoulder slip. Using the floor as leverage he pushed himself backward and landed with a humph on his hands and rump, he kicked, struck someone and heard them go down. The voices around him blended and he couldn't separate Geoff from Paddy nor the other two in the basement with them. Dean rolled onto his right side and frantically pushed himself away from the table. He hit his head on something as he continued to push himself backward.

A deep laugh echoed, and everyone froze. The lights above continued to hum, and the sound of floorboards squeaked. Dean continued his effort to escape, ignored the pain, and the racing of his heart. A hand grasped his left shoulder and Dean kicked again but missed as someone else grabbed his right shoulder and together they drug him back toward the table.

"He's a fighter." The laugh continued. "We need fighters."

Dean was pressed against the table again. Arms wrenched upward, higher this time and his shoulders pressed to the table. He groaned through the gag as his jacket and shirt were once again pushed upward and gathered around his bound hands. Someone grabbed the back of his belt and jeans and Dean panicked as fear overwhelmed him.

"Shit, he's strong," someone said and increased their hold.

Dean struggled harder when he felt the cold liquid of alcohol on his back. His captures pressed his head and shoulders against the surface. Hands grasped his hips and pressed him harder against the table. Dean groaned as panicked breaths grew shorter and he started to hyperventilate. He felt fingers on his spine, moving up from his lower back to the position between his kidneys.

"You sure this is going to work this time?" someone asked.

"Just keep him still," Paddy said, and spread his finger and thumb around the outline Dean's spine.

Dean gasped and groaned through the gag when he felt the pressure of needle puncture his skin, and then the intense agonizing pain that followed.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Sam sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed his brow. He had slept for a few hours after a night of answering questions and failing to find anything about a tattoo with back-to-back eagles, other than the regular "strength and honor" that was associated with biker gangs and prisoners. He had searched police databases hoping to associate a name with the tattoo but had failed. He had again tried to track Dean's phone but found the signal unavailable.

Dean had been missing for 24 hours.

Sam looked up as Bobby entered the room with a bag of fast food in his right hand and a cup of hot coffee in his left. He wore the same clothes from the day before. Bobby handed the coffee to Sam and took a seat at the table across from him.

"I made a phone call this morning to an old friend of mine," Bobby said, and rested his elbows on the table. "He ah, spent some time overseas durin' his military service. I told him about the tattoo you saw — the back-to-back eagles with somethin' in their talons — Geoff said it sounded like a talisman he'd seen back in Saigon, before the war ended..."

Sam met Bobby's eyes. "Military?" he shook his head and rubbed his eyes again. "I checked, Bobby — hell, I went back to colonial times, nothing I saw looked like that tattoo."

"It ain't military, kid," Bobby sighed, rubbed his forehead, and took a deep breath. "Geoff said it was some kind of ornament embroidered in gold on the sleeves of a monk's robe — said he remembered it because the monk wasn't like any he'd ever seen before."

Sam clenched his jaw. "You think it's a religious order that took Dean?" He frowned and shook his head. "I checked all known symbols similar in style to the one I saw — religious, military, pagan, even cultural and tribal — nothing is remotely close." He rubbed his face with the palm of his right hand and rubbed his left temple as a headache approached. He stood and retook his seat at the table. "What else did your friend say?"

Bobby scratched the back of his neck and cleared his throat. "I think we're dealin' with humans, not spirits or gules, or creatures with a taste for spinal fluid." Bobby stood and paced across the room. "Geoff said two of his buddies from his platoon had been found dead — both with puncture wounds to their back…" Bobby scratched his head with his right hand and then straightened his hat. "He said both were found thirty-six hours after they went AWOL." He paused next to the TV and leaned against the dresser.

"Thirty-six hours?" Sam looked at Bobby. "Same as the others." He sighed and looked back at his computer. He ran his fingers through his hair and clenched his jaw. "So what kind of people are we dealing with?" He stood and glanced out the window toward the parking lot. "Secret society shit? Covert military operations? Ritualists? Zealots?" Sam felt his chest tighten as he stepped around his chair and headed to the bathroom vanity to grab himself a cup of water. He disappeared behind the wall and turned the water on. He let it run, braced his hands on each side of the sink, and closed his eyes as he thought about options. He paused a moment and caught himself in the mirror.

"Dean's out there, Bobby, and he's waiting for us to find him — I can't sit here and count down the hours — hell, we only have 12 left!" Sam tossed some water onto his face and grabbed the hand towel. He stepped back around the corner. Bobby hadn't moved. "Where do we look?" Sam asked. He clenched his jaw, placed his hands on his hips and pulled at memories from college, from high school, from listening to his dad tell stories at night when the nights grew long. Sam paused a moment, scratched the back of his neck, and walked toward his computer and retook his seat. "If it's people we're dealing with…" He typed a few strokes on his keyboard and waited.

"Sam."

"There's nothing in dad's journal about obscure groups that sacrifice first borns — nothing, and the only thing I could come close to as far as creatures utilizing spinal fluid for energy or strength were the Marrow Eaters — but dad only mentioned them, he never came across them. So, if this —"

"Sam."

"— is an underground organization then we'll have start looking someplace other than our usual resources." Sam stood and grabbed the hunters bag of weapons and grabbed the small notebook with a Celtic symbol of protection embossed on the cover. "Hell, Bobby, there are hundreds of thousands of talismans out there..." he paused as he looked up and met Bobby's eyes.

Bobby took a deep breath, raised his eyebrows, and pursed his lips. He handed Sam a photograph from one of the crime scenes and then crossed his arms over his chest and waited.

Sam took the image and looked at the body. For a moment saw Dean, face down in the grass, face turned toward the left, blood dried across his left cheek and eye, arms wrenched behind his back, bound in old iron shackles, wrists bloodied and torn. Sam took a seat at the edge of the bed, closed his eyes and cleared his mind before returning his gaze toward the image. He felt sick. "What am I looking for?"

Bobby cleared his throat and shook his head. He pushed himself away from the dresser and grabbed the picture from Sam's hand. "You're so tied up in what you don't know that you can't see what you do know." He raised his eyebrows and looked at Sam before pointing toward the woman standing next to the coroner with a charm bracelet hanging from her wrist. "Notice anything?"

Sam swallowed and stood. "Let's go." He stepped toward the bed to grab his jacket and paused when Bobby grabbed his arm.

"You look like somthin' a cat horks up an' you don't smell much better." Bobby pointed toward Sam's bag. "Take a shower, get changed. I'm gonna check the car and see about gettin' her fixed — Doc said something about the fuel line." He grabbed the doorknob and watched as Sam grabbed some clothes. "I'll meet you at the car when you're ready."

Sam and Bobby entered the coroner's office, dressed in suites, carrying cups of steaming coffee, and FBI badges. Two sterile stainless steel surgical tables were positioned in the center of the room, surgical trays rested next to the tables near the headrests for the deceased. Both trays had been prepped and were covered in blue drapes. A woman in scrubs stood near the counter, white earbuds hung from her ears, she moved her hips slightly as her music's beat increased. Her red hair was pulled into a tight ponytail.

"Excuse me," Sam said, clearing his voice. He raised his eyebrows when she didn't respond.

Bobby shrugged and glanced around the room. Morgues were the one place that gave him the creeps.

"Ma'am," Sam said, and curled his lips when she continued to mark the sheet of paper on her clipboard. Sam sighed, turned and flipped the light switch off.

"Damn it, Harry!" The woman turned, as the lights were flipped back on, and she pulled the buds from her ears. "Sorry," she said. "Dr. Mathison won't be back for a couple hours."

Sam flipped his badge, but quickly put it away when he realized it wasn't needed. "Are you Abby Tuller?"

"Yeah," she said, placed the clipboard on the counter, and shoved her hands into her pockets. "What can I do for you?"

Sam took a deep breath and smiled. "My partner and I are looking into the recent deaths —"

"The young men found in Jeffers County, Madison County and Ells County?"

Sam frowned and nodded. "Yeah... I'm surprised—"

Abby rolled her eyes and raised her left eyebrow. "Five deaths of young men from three different counties —"

Sam shook his head. "The last report I have stated there were four bodies?"

Abby pointed toward the prepped table. "Another one was found early this morning outside of Basin Hill — looks like he died of exposure, but Dr. Mathison will determine once the body gets delivered."

Sam swallowed and felt his heart constrict. "Victim?"

Abby checked clipboard. "You okay?" she asked, "You're looking a little pale."

"Fine," Sam said and glanced toward Bobby who stood strong, but silent.

Bobby tightened his fists at his sides and took a deep breath.

"Doug Elliot, local farm boy – disappeared about nine weeks ago," Abby said, and frowned when both agents sighed. "I don't know what I can tell you about any of this, you really need to talk with Dr. Mathison if you want any details." She scratched behind her left hear exposing the charm bracelet.

"You mind?" Sam asked, pointing toward the bracelet. "My girlfriend used to collect charms."

"No," Abby corrected, "these aren't charms, these are talisman replicas from archeological digs I participated in." She handed the bracelet to Sam. "I did my undergraduate work in anthropology — focused my research on the genocide of the descendants of the Knights Templar."

"What?" Bobby and Sam asked the question at the same time.

Abby shrugged. "You know academics, always looking for the obscure." She crossed her arms over her chest as Sam continued to look at each piece one by one. "My professor said to research something that would get me recognized. My dad was a Mason, and I'd always been interested in," she signaled air quotes with her fingers, "secret societies. I always found it interesting that the Templars were slaughtered so I focused my research on their decedents."

"What'd you learn?" Sam asked, and rubbed his thumb over the image of the two eagles.

Abby shrugged and raised her right eyebrow. "You sure you want to know this?"

Sam smiled. "Yeah, I ah…" he paused, "find the obscure more interesting."

Abby nodded. "I learned a lot but could never prove anything so everything I have is very much theoretical — not that it makes much difference in academia, but facts help when trying to prove a point. Right?" She shrugged again. "After the church slaughtered the Templars their history faded — I found some oral history that varied and a few artifacts here and there — that one, the piece you're holding represents power and glory. I discovered the image at a dig in France where several thousand knights were supposedly burned alive."

Abby reached for the bracelet and moved to the next piece. "This one with the half moon is power and success. The cross and stars is good fortune. The blade and chalice represent perfect love and trust." She moved through the pieces and smiled fondly as she remembered her time in college. "This one, the shield and cross is protection from evil — some researchers speculate that once the Templars learned of their impending annihilation that they formed a secret society of their own — which some believe still exist. Others believe they were destroyed and Knights Templar lore is the only history remaining."

"What do you think?" Sam asked, and shoved his hands into his pockets.

Abby shrugged again. "I think genocide is an atrocity that exposes weakness in the aggressor — and I don't think an organization like the Knights Templar allowed themselves to be destroyed." She replaced the bracelet on her wrist. "I know you'll find this ridiculous, but… I think the Templars were originally organized to fight things that couldn't be explained," she continued when Sam didn't chuckle, "I think they were very good at what they did — battling evil on different fields of existence." Abby paused, swallowed, and looked toward Bobby who seemed just as interested. "I also think they were destroyed because of what they were fighting. I think a few of them survived and have continued their legacy through generations of what some call 'cullers' — direct descendants of the original Templar bloodlines."

Abby grabbed her wrist with the bracelet and found comfort in the talisman. "Through my research I found that some believe that an organization called the Knights Cross has continued to slaughter the Templar descendants, which —"

"Is why you're here?" Sam said. "You think the both societies are after the same bloodlines?"

Abby nodded. "After I completed my master's degree I was accepted as a Ph.D. candidate at Harvard. My thesis is on the oral and written history of the Templars, and the organization of the Knights Cross. I discovered though a book I found in Germany a few years ago that the young men — first borns — were being found dead along the old burial ruins of the Templar headquarters. All the men found had a puncture wound to their backs." Abby shrugged and continued. "Death wasn't that unusual back then, but they didn't have the technology to discover why people were dying other than the normal childbirth, old age, whatever, but I started to track the puncture wounds and found that they were occurring all over the world. When I heard about Billy —" she shrugged, "I hopped on a plane and asked to be involved.

"Listen," Abby said, "I can't confirm, but I think one or both groups are here, and I'm trying to ascertain if their history is living or if someone is just recreating an idea or theology that existed hundreds of years ago. But I do believe that certain groups remained in hiding — it's the nature of the beast, isn't it?" she raised her eyebrows. "Destroy those that get too big, too strong, too powerful — when it's the most powerful doing the destruction."

Bobby swallowed and looked at Abby with a critical eye. "You found somethin' durin' those digs?"

Abby clasped her hand over the bracelet and touched the talisman with her fingers. She swallowed and looked toward the clock before glancing back toward Sam and Bobby. "I think the Templars are searching for their legacy line. I think they've finally come to this country in hopes of finding members and training them to be Cullers or Hunters that fight against the unnatural." She ran her fingers over the talisman and stopped on the double eagle. "This one," she raised her wrist and for Sam and Bobby to see. "I saw this on a man in town a few days ago — a tattoo on his neck. He was almost as tall as you." She looked at Sam. "Broader, and more bulk. He spoke with an accent — I couldn't place it.

"I asked him about the tattoo — said it was his family crest." She shrugged and crossed her arms over her chest again. "The back to back eagles are a common tattoo or symbol in most cultures – what makes this one different is the positioning of the wings and the scroll. You have to know something about Templar history to make the connection, otherwise you just end up with a tattoo that represents," Abby shrugged, "bravery on the back of a Harley."

Sam curled his lips into a tight smile. "You notice anything else about him? What he was driving? Who he was with?" He tiled his head slightly to the right and listened.

Abby shrugged and shook her head. "He seemed nice… young, but with a really old soul."

Bobby rolled his eyes and Sam smiled. "I appreciate it."

Abby nodded, watched them leave and slipped her earbuds back into her ears as the music played.

Sam stepped outside, placed his left hand on his hip, and ran his right hand through his hair and rubbed his face.

"When you boys do somethin', you do it big, don't you?" Bobby sighed, opened the passenger side door of the Impala and then rested his left arm on the hood. He watched Sam step off the sidewalk and walk toward the car. "Secret societies, genocide, Knights Templar... holy shit, Sam." Bobby slipped into the passenger seat and loosened his tie. He turned toward Sam who started the engine. "We need to find Dean." He looked at his watch and sighed 28 hours.

Sam clenched his jaw, shifted the Impala into reverse and backed up. "Where do we start?" He pulled up to the exit and looked at Bobby.

"We go back to the bodies — look at the autopsy reports. There's got to be somethin' we're missin', and those bodies have to have somethin' more in common other than a spinal-tap. There's got to be somethin' ritualistic, hell, if it is an order based off a religiously based sect."

Sam clenched his jaw, hit the gas, and headed back to the hotel.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Dean had bonelessly collapsed to the floor once the procedure was done and then dragged back to his position in the corner of the basement. His bound hands were once again hooked to the U-bolt. He didn't hear the voices around him, the clanking of supplies, the moving of furniture or the sounds of hollow steps moving upward. He lay on his right side and struggled to breathe. He couldn't remember how long he had been out, but the chronic pain in his back had pulled him from unconsciousness. He slowly and painfully pushed himself to a seated position and leaned against the wall, gasped for breath, fought the deep aches throughout his body, and the migraine that followed. Still gagged, he rested his head against the wall and focused his energy on not vomiting.

He couldn't remember how long he had been there, the last time he had slept, ate, or had something to drink. He involuntarily shook as shock set in. Slowly, the sounds of steps from above breeched his consciousness and he listed to the murmurs of voices, dishes, and engines being started outside.

He felt saliva collecting in his mouth, around the gag, and he tried to swallow but his throat constricted. Dean sighed, he wasn't going to die fighting a vampire or a creature of the night but choking on his own vomit. He tried to clench swollen fingers but found his strength waning. He raised his right knee, scraped the ground with the heel of his boot, and gasped as his hip protested the simple movement.

Dean paused when he heard laughter and he felt his pulse increase. More laughter, slaps of hands, and the sudden shifts of furniture. He moved and tried to focus on the voices above. They were joyful, a game had been won, an unexpected accomplishment, maybe someone won the lottery.

The latch to the basement door was opened and Dean winced. His pulse increased, breathing hitched, and his head swam. The quick pace of footsteps down hollow steps echoed. Dean felt muscles instinctively tighten and he tried to push himself further into the corner. He didn't know how much more he could take.

"Welcome, brother," Paddy said, and squatted in front of Dean. There was a smile in his voice.

Dean pushed dirt with his heel.

"One more step," Paddy said, "then you're free to go – you carry the line."

Dean swallowed, inhaled, and then kicked toward the sound of the voice. He connected with a grunt, and Paddy fell back with a groan.

"I like the spirit in this one, Paddy, he's all fire and fury." Geoff chuckled and shifted his bad leg as we walked toward Dean. "Be grateful, boy, the outcome could have been much worse – the line is rare, but you carry it."

Paddy stood, rubbed his shin and looked toward Red who had joined them at the foot of the stairs.

"Hurts, don't it," Red said, arms crossed over his chest, a grin spread across his cheeks.

"Are we going to do this?" another man said.

Dean recognized the voice, but a name hadn't been associated with him. Dean groaned as he fought the cuffs and the U-bolt. He pulled both knees to his chest and used the wall for support as he tried to push himself up. Frustrated, he slumped back to the floor and felt the chill of cold sweat collect. Adrenalin was great until endurance expired.

"Is the blade ready?" Geoff asked, and shifted himself to look at Red. "The ledger?"

Dean heard the room quiet as Geoff spoke. A leader despite his handicap, or because of it.

"Bring the brand," Geoff said to Red who nodded and retreated up the steps. "Paddy, pull yourself together. Henry," he turned toward the unnamed voice, "prep him. Time is short, and we must be moving on... the crows are calling my name." He turned as Paddy and Henry walked toward Dean.

Dean kicked again but lacked the strength to cause any further damage. His hands were released, and he was gripped by the shoulders and pulled forward. They forced him against the table and yanked his jacket and shirt back past his shoulders. Dean gasped as the pressure on his chest increased. He tried to get his feet under him, but muscles failed. He felt someone pull his shirt and jacket further down his left shoulder, exposing the dark bruise from the impact of the car.

"It'll be over quick," Paddy said, adjusting his grip on Dean's arm. "Then it'll be over..." he paused and turned as Red stepped down the stairs. "You won't understand this for a while, you won't recognize or appreciate our purpose, our legacy, our history, but you will... one day... you will."

Dean struggled, but felt hands tighten.

"There are only a few of us left — first born sons — direct descendants of the Original Guard, an order of protectors born before Christianity, before the world understood the concept of evil… before the world was shrouded in idealism. We are blessed with long life — one day you'll recognize it... one day," he whispered into Dean's ear, "you'll thank us for it."

"And one day you'll curse us for it," Geoff said as he pressed the brand to Dean's shoulder.

Sam sat at the hotel room table and looked at the uneaten food Bobby had grabbed hours before. The lettuce had wilted, and bun had dried, and fries had cooled. Sam clenched his jaw and rubbed his face with his hands. Dean had been gone 48 hours, and Sam had stared at the computer screen knowing hope had faded. He looked toward his phone and expected a call from the police informing him that his brother had been found like the others, abandoned in a remote location, dead at the scene. He checked his battery and sighed when he realized it was fully charged.

He and Bobby had gone out to the location where it happened and tried searching for anything that would help, but they found nothing.

Bobby had made call after call, and nobody could provide an answer. The talisman was a rare oddity associated with religious and cultural lore that was surrounded with myths and stories told through oral traditions. Nothing was solid. Bobby sat on the bed closest to the wall of the bathroom and looked toward Sam. He looked lost, unable to find a solution through traditional tactics: College, John's journal, and even hunter's oral stories had been sifted like sand through a vent.

The air in the room felt heavy.

"I don't know what to do," Sam admitted, and looked out the window as the sun started its slow descent. Despite the grief, the scene was beautiful, the pink and blue hues grew darker as the clock ticked. The sunset crept through the branches of the nearby oak trees. Birds collected on the electrical wires along the road. A dog chased after a ball in the park across the street.

It all seemed so normal.

Sam watched as the manager decided on a paint color and extended his sample area to reflect the choice of light blue. Fitting, considering the name of the hotel.

"Dean's a tough sonofabitch. If anyone will survive this..." Bobby paused and caught a hitch in his throat. "Dean will."

Sam nodded, but continued to look out the window. "Maybe we could go back to the location where he was hit... maybe there was something we missed?" He leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees and hung his head. "How would they even know we were on that road?" He turned and looked toward Bobby. "At that time?"

"Whoever did this, Sam, sabotaged the Impala... they've been close enough this whole time to know how to take one of you boys down... and damn it to hell, it took Dean gettin' hit by a damn car to do it." Bobby rubbed his thighs as he stood.

"But why?" Sam frowned and returned his gaze toward the window. "The others taken weren't hunters." He turned again toward Bobby. "And why a puncture wound to the spine — what would spinal fluid provide that blood or saliva couldn't?"

"You're assuming that they took fluid... maybe they inserted somethin'?" Bobby clenched his jaw and looked to his right and then back to Sam. "And, remember what Abby was talkin' about — how these tests have been used for hundreds of years — whoever is doin' this ain't using modern technology. This shit is old school." He scratched the back of his neck.

"Nothing came back in the tox screen." Sam said and turned toward Bobby.

"We've been hunters for a long time, Sam, you know as well as I do that weird shit happens." He pushed his hat back and scratched the top of his head. "All the victims died from other causes, the spinal-tap didn't cause their deaths —"

Sam stood. "What the hell, Bobby, none of that helps us find Dean. We need a location — he's being held someplace, and nobody knows shit about abandoned properties around town or the entire county for that matter. We've got dead bodies popping up around here like some kind of freak show and the sheriff's department couldn't give a shit, the ME is out playing golf, and the FBI can't be bothered because the bodies are turning up in different counties that happen to be next to each other." Sam grabbed his coat and shoved his arms into it, before turning toward the door.

"None of this makes sense."

"No shit!" Bobby said and took a step forward. "But it never does, does it? I know this isn't the life you wanted, kid, you've made that abundantly clear, but right now I don't have time to babysit your insecurities because you can't find an easy fix using the internet. Your brother is out there, he needs you and me to pull him out of whatever hellhole he's in.

"I know you're tired, I know you've had enough, and I know you don't know where to turn, but you're goin' to pull your shit together for your brother and we're goin' to find him. I've lost a lot of good friends — some as close as you boys." Bobby paused. "You're my family, and this is killin' me."

Sam swallowed and nodded. He felt young, out of place, and in too deep. "Where do we start?"

"Back where it started." Bobby grabbed his jacket and slipped it on before he grabbed the keys to the Impala. "Bring that flashlight."


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

By the time they arrived at the location for the second time it was dark. Bobby parked the car on the side of the road, stepped out and shown the light on the pavement, and along the shoulder. There wasn't anything unusual, no broken headlights or taillights. Gravel crunched beneath Sam's weight as he flashed his lights into the wooded area to his right. He could hear the rustling of bushes as animals moved. The rain had left the ground moist, and weeds worked their way through the cracks in the road and along the shoulder.

An owl whoo'd in the distance. Sam stalled, took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He turned back toward the Impala as Bobby continued to look for a sign. A gust of wind picked up and Sam pulled his jacket closed. He opened the door to the car and took a seat on the passenger side. Both feet planted on solid ground as he looked out toward the woods. He could hear Bobby getting closer. The door squeaked, and the car shifted as Bobby slipped onto the driver's seat.

"Ready?" Bobby asked and started the ignition.

"For what?" Sam turned and looked at him.

"We're going to pull into the first driveway we see."

Sam pulled his feet into the car and closed the door.

The first driveway was blocked with large ornate steel gates that were closed and locked. Bronzed lamp posts were positioned on the brick beams holding up the gates. The driveway was paved, and white fencing could be seen leading up the trail with overhanging trees and manicured lawns. Floodlights in distance highlighted the curved entrance. Bobby shook his head, climbed back in the car and backed out of the entry.

"We'll try the second," he said, as he shifted into gear and pressed the gas.

The second drive lead them to an abandoned mobile home with a downed tree across the top. The roof had broken apart and the lawn was litter with clothing, broken furniture, and scraps. The grass was overgrown with weeds and broken branches. A dog house rested to the left of the home, Sparky had been painted above the entry. A broken swing-set rested just beyond the doghouse. The swings broken and hung from a single chain. Sam insisted they look around. What they found were used condoms, empty beer cans and bottles, fast food wrappers, and drug paraphernalia. Sam returned to the car defeated. He sat back against the seat, rested his head against the headrest and looked out the window as Bobby headed south once again.

The third driveway lead them to an old farmhouse. Tractors were parking out front, and trees had been cleared decades before to make room for alfalfa fields. The lights were on in the house and a farm spotlight highlighted the barn and chicken coop. Bobby took the lead, and left Sam in the car. An old farmer, still in his coveralls, met Bobby on the front porch, spoke with him for fifteen minutes, and then handed him something. Cows could be heard in the distance bellowing, as well as coyotes. Sam watched an owl swoop and collect a rabbit from the field to his right and quickly fly off. He pushed himself up when he saw Bobby and the farmer shake hands and then Bobby turned and walked back toward the car.

"Anything?" Sam asked, as Bobby retook his seat behind the wheel.

Bobby raised his eyebrows, clenched his haw, and nodded. He handed the brown package to Sam. "He said we were late." He started the car and drove toward the exit as Sam opened the package.

The leather ledger was embossed with intricate detailed talisman, many similar to those on Abby's bracelet. Sam grabbed his flashlight and tucked it below his chin as he flipped through the pages that had been stained, well used, folded and overwritten with corrections. The handwriting varied from page to page, but the sketches and drawings of creatures, spirits, and the supernatural had Sam nervously flipping from page to page. He paused a moment and flipped to the back of the journal, and paused at the sight of a dagger, carefully embedded within the last few pages. Sam ran his fingers over the intricate carving on the handle of the shield and cross, protection from evil.

Bobby swallowed and pressed the gas and the Impala's engine hummed beneath the ask. "Seems ol' Farmer Brown owns some property fifteen miles up the road. Said he rented the property to a man for a few days — didn't think much of it, but the renter dropped off his payment and the package and told him to give to us when we came by," Bobby glanced toward Sam and gripped the steering wheel.

"How'd they know we'd stop by?" Sam asked with a frown.

Bobby sighed. "Like I said, Sam, whoever these people are... they know things." He rubbed his brow and pulled the bill of his cap back down.

Sam felt his nerves ignite and his pulse increase.

"Keep a look out," Bobby said. "Ben said there's a mangled mailbox near the entrance to the property and then it's a mile to the house from the road."

Sam clenched his jaw, watched the road, and closed the journal. He glanced at his watch, rubbed his chin and kept quiet as he tried to control his breathing. He scratched his thumbnail with his index finger, a nervous habit he wasn't aware of. He felt Bobby slow the Impala as they neared the fifteen-mile mark. Sam rolled the window down to get a clearer look. His hands were shaking, and he grabbed the door-handle to still his nerves.

"There," Sam said, and pointed toward the mailbox that had been bashed and now rested at an angle. Choke week had grown up and round the post.

Bobby turned up the gravel road and heard the gravel crunch beneath the car's weight as they slowly made their way forward. Trees framed the road, arched over the roadway and shielded the gravel from the full moon. A fox ran across the path, eyes glowed as it stopped, looked toward the car, and then quickly leapt forward.

"Get some weapons ready, Sam, if this is it — we may not be alone."

Sam placed the journal on the seat beside him and then reached into the backseat and pulled the tote to the front. He grabbed and tucked Dean's gun into the waistband of his pants, loaded a revolver, and then looked up in time to see the craftsman home come into view. The moon highlighted the windows on each side of the front door. The two-story home was dark, a second story window had been left open and the curtains flapped outside as another gust of wind picked up. Gables covered both windows on the top floor, and a chimney was to the left of the house. The covered front porch was in need of repair as paint chips lay on the ground and entwined with weeds that had woven around the banister.

Bobby turned the lights off, shifted the car to park, and looked toward Sam. "Let's go take a peek." He took the revolver and grabbed a flashlight.

Sam opened his car door, flashlight gripped tightly in his left hand, and his weapon in his right. It was peaceful as they approached the building. The leaves on the fruit trees near the house rustled, and the sound of running water could be heard in the distance. Sam noticed the lush grass near the edge of the yard and realized a creek ran through the property. There weren't any vehicles in site, but mud bound gaps left evidence of recent activity on the property. Bobby moved up the steps, weapon at the ready. He tested the front door and clenched his jaw when it squeaked as it opened. The old home exhaled as a gust of wind passed them. Sam glanced toward the old barn, saw no movement, and took the steps to the house backward.

"Someone's been here," Bobby said. "I can smell," he paused, took a couple of sniffs and sighed, "fresh baked ham."

Sam raised his eyebrows and moved to the left as he passed the threshold. He entered the living room and flashed his light toward the old paintings of local landscapes, a stack of unopened mail on the cabinet next to the TV, pictures of family on the fireplace mantel, and an antique doll in the rocking chair next to the window. An old afghan lay across the davenport, and a teacup and saucer rested untouched on the coffee table.

"Kitchen and bath are clear," Bobby said. He lowered his weapon and flashed his light around the space. "I'll check upstairs."

Sam nodded and watched Bobby take the steps to the second floor. Sam sighed and flashed his lights toward the kitchen. The home, while old, had been well cared for. He flashed his light down the hall toward the bath and spotted the door to his left. He unhooked the metal latch, let it loose and dangle as he pulled the door open. Dirt, mold, dust, and the scent of burned flesh hit his senses and Sam covered his mouth and nose with his arm. He shown his light down the steps, caught sight of unfinished walls and carefully made his way down the unfinished staircase. His footfalls sounded hollow on the treads. Sam raised his weapon and kept the flashlight pointed forward. The floor was dirt, old shelves rested to the right of the steps filled with tools and jars of miscellaneous items: sewing supplies, crafts, broken kitchen objects, magnets, and buttons.

Sam stepped forward and followed the light toward a hutch freezer with boxes, newspapers bound with twine, and a box of glass for recycling on top. He flinched toward the back of the room when he heard the faint sounds of breathing and grinding of dirt. He paused a moment and turned his flashlight to his left and caught site of a boot moving slowly back and forth over a small section of dirt. Sam felt his heart clench. He moved the flashlight up, caught filthy jeans, a gray jacket and flannel shirt, black hood, and hands bound. Dean rested upright against the wall, still tucked in the corner.

"Dean," Sam whispered as he rushed forward.

Sam slid to his knees and grasped Dean's left arm which resulted in a weak struggle. "Dean, hey, man, it's me, hey... hey. It's Sam." Sam increased his hold as Dean pulled away. "Dean!" Sam swallowed when his brother stopped. "It's Sam... it's me, Dean."

Dean shifted toward the voice. Fight gone. He hung his head in defeat.

Sam placed the flashlight on the table next to him and untied the gag and carefully pried it from Dean's mouth. Dean groaned and inhaled sharply as the hood was pulled from his head, dried blood peeled from the gash above his eye. He winced catching the brightness of the flashlight and turned his head toward Sam.

Sam clenched his jaw. "You with me?" he asked, and carefully worked to release the handcuffs from Dean's torn wrists. Blood had dried in the creases of his hands, along his palms and into the edges of his fingernails. When the cuff's release engaged Sam reached around Dean's shoulders and pulled him forward toward his chest. Sam paused, and pressed his palm to Dean's forehead. "We need to get you out of here, Dean." Sam shifted as he took more of Dean's weight. "Come on, man, we need to get you out of here." He moved and pushed Dean upright back against the wall and cupped Dean's jaw to look at him. "I need your help." Sam nodded when sluggish eyes met his. "Put your arm around my shoulders, Dean."

Sam grasped Dean's right arm and slipped it up around his shoulder. "That's it." Sam slipped his arms around his brother's torso and slowly stood. He could feel Dean use what strength he had to help. Sam grasped Dean's right wrist, ignored the injuries, and then Sam wrapped his left arm behind Dean's back.

Dean yelped, and knees grew weak when pressure was applied to his left side. He gasped as the pressure was released, but he struggled to remain standing. Sam clenched his jaw, grasped Dean's belt and slowly walked forward. Dean struggled with the movement but worked to get his feet beneath him.

"Sam?" A voice called from above.

"Bobby!" Sam yelled, "I've got him — he's in bad shape, Bobby!" He struggled toward the steps.

A switch was flipped, and the humming of lights echoed before they flickered on.

Bobby was halfway down the steps before he stalled. "Sonofabitch," he said and rushed forward. He shifted himself under Dean's left side. "Damn it, Dean, you look like you've been run over by a fifth wheel."

"Watch his ribs — I think he's busted a few."

"I'm gonna guess he's got more than a few busted ribs." Bobby moved forward with Sam and together they shifted, lifted, and finally got Dean to the first floor. Gasping, both Bobby and Sam struggled toward the door.

Another wind picked up and blew past them as they exited the house. Dean winced and gasped as he was maneuvered down the front steps. By the time they got to the car, Dean was dead weight. He'd grown silent at the bottom step, and the weak grip he had on Sam and Bobby's shoulders had failed. Sam released Dean's wright wrist and opened the back-passenger door.

Sam looked toward Bobby. "Ready?"

Bobby nodded and slowly released his hold as Sam slipped his arms beneath Dean's and slowly backed into the Impala. Sam slid Dean along the seat and pulled him toward himself as Bobby lifted Dean's knees and rested his feet on the seat. Bobby shut the door and rushed around the front, opened the door and got seated then quickly looked over his shoulder to make sure both were stable before slipping the key into the ignition.

"Hospital?" Bobby asked and shifted the car into drive and hit the gas.

Sam winced, clenched his jaw and pressed his right hand to Dean's forehead securing him against his shoulder. "Hotel," he said and swallowed.

"Sam?"

"Just get us to the hotel, Bobby," Sam sighed, "I'll tell you when we get there."


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

Sam and Bobby moved Dean into the hotel room and laid him on the right side of the bed next to the nightstand.

"Sam," Bobby said, he rand this hand over his face as he stepped away from the bed. "He needs a hospital."

Sam slipped his hand beneath Dean's neck and adjusted his head on the pillow. "There's a wanted poster of him on the hospital bulletin board — I saw it on the way to the morgue." He turned toward Bobby. "They may save his life — but they'll have him under lock and key — they'll send the feds in…"

"Shit," Bobby sighed with a nod. He took a deep breath and then pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed a number. "Doc, it's Bobby, I've got another favor to ask," he said, as he left the room.

Sam dampened a washcloth in the sink and then moved back toward the bed. He sat next to Dean's hip and carefully wiped blood away from his face. Dean was a mess, broken, bloodied... unresponsive. Sam took a deep breath and then turned as Bobby reenter the room.

"Doc will be here in a few," Bobby said. He slipped his jacket off and tossed it on the chair by the door and then flipped the light on table on. "How's he doin'?" He closed the curtains, and then walked to the end of the bed and took a deep breath as he crossed his arms over his chest.

Sam sighed, swallowed, and shrugged. "I don't know." He pulled back Dean's jacket and then unbuttoned his shirt and winced as he exposed the black and blue bruising that spread from Dean's left shoulder, down his chest, flank, and disappeared beneath his belt.

Bobby whistled. "Ah shit." He winced and shook his head. "Busted ribs are right." He unlaced Dean's boots, slipped them off, and then dropped the boots near wall. Bobby grabbed a few pillows from the adjacent bed and carefully slipped them beneath Dean's knees.

"Doc?" Sam turned toward Bobby who looked like he wanted to do more but didn't know where to start. "She a doctor?" He dabbed at the gash above Dean's left eyebrow and cleaned the blood that had dried on his eyelid and lashes.

Bobby clenched his jaw and nodded. "Of sorts." He cleared his throat and coughed. "She was a nurse for while – 'til she figured out she didn't like people then she went back to school and became a vet. " He looked at Dean's slack hands, the dried blood and torn skin, and how dirt encrusted his nails. His face was slack as Sam continued to wash away the evidence of brutality and exposed more of his pale features and the dark black and blue bruising.

Sam paused, turned so both feet were planted on the floor, and held the bloodied washcloth. He could hear the crackles of breath as Dean inhaled and exhaled with too much effort. Sam looked toward Bobby who stood at the ready, but waited, too afraid to move, and cause further damage. Sam sighed. "I want to look at his back." He turned toward Bobby. "I want to make sure…"

"Let's wait for Doc, Sam." Bobby looked toward the door when he heard the sound of a truck door slam. He glanced at Sam before he opened for the door as Doc was about to knock.

Still wearing green coveralls, muck boots, and a rubber band around her right bicep she entered the room. She paused, looked at Sam, and then the patient on the bed. "Oh hell no. He needs a hospital," she said, and turned toward Bobby.

Bobby swallowed. "Doc— "

"I just had my arm shoulder deep up the ass of Holstein. Don't Doc me, Bobby, you called me about a friend who needed some medical attention — what you have is a patient on the verge — he needs a hospital."

"Please," Sam said as he walked across the room and stood in front of the door. "Please." He held up his hands as Doc made a motion to pass him. "He's my brother — I can't take him to the hospital — we were attacked a while back and things went south — Dean was accused of murder — he didn't do it — but —" Sam paused, relaxed his shoulders and stood to his full height. He rubbed his nose with his wrist and sighed. "We can't take him to the hospital… please…"

Doc sighed and looked at Sam who appeared defeated. She could tell he was exhausted, his hands shook, and dark circles hung beneath his eyes. She took a deep breath and looked toward the bed. "I can tell from here he's critical — and I haven't event touched him." She met Sam's eyes. "You realize he could die?" She turned toward Bobby. "I do this," she glanced at Bobby with lips pressed, and jaw clenched. "I need a few things."

Bobby nodded. "Anything."

Doc rubbed her face and then turned toward the bed. "There's a medical bag in the cab of my truck." She sat on the edge of the bed. "Grab it." She grabbed Dean's left wrist and gently ran her thumb over the damaged tissue before she pulled her watch from her pocket. "There's a lactated ringer and IV lines in the second drawer of the vet box — I'll need that and," she paused as she calculated his pulse, "I have IV catheters in the box as well — grab two in case I can't find a vein." She stood, unhooked the rubber clips on her boots and then unzipped her coveralls. She shrugged out of them and pulled her cowboy boots from the muck boots. She wiped her hands on her jeans and then stepped around the wall to the vanity and washed her hands. "I'll need my stethoscope — I need to listen to his lungs, take x-rays, and I'll need to draw some blood for labs." She peeked around the corner. "Are you sure you're not willing to take him to the hospital?" She shook her head when she didn't get a response.

Bobby was already out the door and had grabbed the supplies. He ripped the packaging from the lactated ringer, prepped the VI line, pulled short strips of tape from the roll and lined them up on the edge of the end table for easy reach, and then he grabbed the bottle of alcohol and cotton balls, and the stethoscope.

Doc moved back toward the bed and pulled open Dean's shirt and jacket. She winced at the bruising. She grabbed the medical bag and tossed it on the adjacent bed and pulled out her blood pressure cuff, bandages, antiseptics, medical ointments and tapes of varying sizes and well as a pair of scissors with rounded tips. She took a seat on the bed next to Dean's hip and cut the sleeve of his shirt and jacket past the collar.

"How long has he been unconscious?"

Sam cleared his throat. "Maybe… 20 minutes."

"Was he fully conscious when you found him?" She placed her stethoscope over her neck and handed Sam the scissors.

Sam shrugged. "I don't think so." He watched her take Dean's blood pressure and then listen to his lungs.

"Cut that other sleeve," Doc said, and looked toward Sam, "we need to get him out of these clothes." She turned toward Bobby. "I need to find a vein — he's dehydrated, probably anemic, and he's got fluid on his lungs and we need to get him elevated to help his breathing — blood pressure's low but not enough to warrant concern — at least not yet."

Bobby grabbed the bag he had prepped, and the catheter. He watched Doc carefully run her thumb over the back of Dean's left hand then move to his wrist. She placed her thumb against a vein between his wrist and elbow. Satisfied she had found a vein stable enough for an IV she grabbed a tourniquet and tightened it around his upper bicep and then grabbed an alcohol pad that Bobby had readied and wiped Dean's skin. Despite his dehydration, the vein bulged beneath the pressure of the tourniquet. She placed her thumb to the left of the vein and carefully inserted the catheter. She pulled back on the needle to insure she hadn't missed and quickly attached the line.

Bobby handed her tape without being asked and watched her secure the catheter and line to his skin. Once it was secured she administered a slow drip.

"I'll take some blood to see how is organs are functioning — too much fluid too soon could cause more problems." She looked up at Bobby who held the lactated ringer at shoulder height. "It just needs to be above his head, Bobby. If you hook it to the bedpost it'll be fine."

Bobby swallowed and hooked the bag. He stood close by, ready to do what was asked.

"I can't thank you enough for doing this." Sam said, and replaced the scissors into the medical bag after he'd cut through Dean's shirt and jacket.

"Don't thank me yet." Doc stood and motioned with her hand for Sam to move toward Dean's right. "I want to look at this bruising — it extends to his back and I want to know how far."

"He may have a puncture wound to his spine," Bobby said.

Doc sighed and took a deep breath. She motioned for Sam to move into position.

Sam nodded and crawled onto the bed and scooted on his knees closer to Dean's right side. Sam slid his left hand and arm beneath his brother's neck and left shoulder and carefully pulled him toward himself. Dean tensed and gasped at the movement, but quieted and relaxed as his head lulled back in the crook of Sam's elbow. Sam swallowed and looked toward Doc in reassurance.

"Careful, keep as much pressure of his ribs as you can," she said, bending at the waist to look at Dean's back. She took a deep breath and clenched her jaw. "Pull him up a little more," she said, and carefully pushed Dean onto his right side. She pulled his jacket and shirt from beneath him and tossed it to the floor as she got a better look at his back.

Sam increased his hold and rested on his hunches.

"They branded him," Doc said, her voice was soft and she carefully ran her fingers over the back of Dean's left shoulder and noted the red swollen tissue, the areas that had blistered and torn, and the subtle hint of infection. She turned and looked toward Bobby. "What the fuck, Bobby?" She clenched her jaw. "This kid's a mess – who the fuck brands somebody?" She shifted to her knees and leaned against the bed as she looked at the injury.

"What," Sam asked, and looked from Bobby to Doc, "what kind of brand?"

Bobby averted his gaze and felt his stomach clench.

"There's an oxygen tank in the vet box above the wheel well, I need you to grab it and bring me an oxygen mask – I don't have one for human's so you'll need to run down to the medical clinic and let them know you need one — tell them it's for your father who's an emphysema patient." She turned toward Bobby. "And then I want you to run to my clinic and pick up my portable X-ray — I want to take a look at those ribs before I bind them."

Bobby turned, grabbed the keys, and quickly left the room. The engine of the Impala roared to life and then the squealing of tires followed.

"How bad?" Sam asked, jaw clenched, eyes watery, nostrils flared as he tried to maintain his composure. He looked down at Dean's slack face, dried blood still embedded against his jaw, cheek, and around his left eye. "He feels hot?"

Doc ignored the question, leaned back on her haunches, and rubbed her nose with her wrist. She paused a moment before grabbing a bottle of cleaning solution from her bag and dampening a gauze pad. Carefully, she cleaned the area around the brand. "Watch your hand, Sam – you don't want to accidentally damage the injury." She placed her palm on the back of Sam's hand as he shifted his position.

"The brand... It's some kind of cross," she said, as she cleaned the wound.

Dean tensed and gasped. He bent his left knee and then groaned. He raised his left hand, but it dropped quickly back to his side. Sam held tight.

"Dean?" Sam said, feeling his muscles burn as he tried to maintain his position. "Keep going," he said, and looked toward Doc. "I've got him."

Doc stood and grabbed a bandage and cream from her medical bag. With practiced ease she applied the ointment and covered the brand with the bandage and carefully taped it into place. She could hear Dean's breathing grow more harsh, but she pushed it away and then felt around the puncture wound to his spine. "What in the hell did they do to you?" she muttered as she felt the heat from the wound. She cleaned the area, and applied a bandage.

Doc nodded toward Sam and they carefully positioned Dean into a more comfortable position with his chest elevated. She took a vile of blood, and sighed when Bobby reentered the room with an oxygen tank, mask and portable X-ray.

"Sorry," Bobby said and watched as Doc went through the motions of hooking the oxygen up and slipping the mask onto Dean's face. "How is he?"

Doc stood, rubbed her brow, and took a deep breath. Sam sat on the bed opposite his brother, elbows on his knees, hands wrung together. "He's a fighter," she said.

Doc nodded and quickly prepped her portable X-ray. She had it set up in minutes, had the X-rays taken, and sent to her computer before Bobby could figure out what she was doing. It folded up quickly, and she wound the electrical cord and then moved it beside the dresser. She looked at Bobby and raised her eyebrows as she grabbed his arm with a gentle squeeze.

"Been a large animal vet for so long I forget that people need to know what I'm doing." She stepped beside Sam who had yet to move and squeezed his shoulder. "You need to lay down before you fall down. I don't need two patients right now," she looked at Bobby and took a seat at the table, "or three."

Bobby took a deep breath and watched Doc analyze the X-rays. He could feel exhaustion nipping at his heels. His hands shook, his heart raced, and his palms were sweaty, but he ignored the symptoms. He nodded toward Doc when she looked up and forced a smile.

"Three broken ribs, fifth, sixth, and seventh, and I'll guess ribs four, eight and nine are severely bruised." She turned her computer toward him. "His lung is probably bruised so he'll need to stay on oxygen for a while." She rubbed her face and took a deep breath. "He really needs a hospital, Bobby… I can't stress it enough."

Bobby sat on the edge of the bed and frowned. "Dean's tough… I always knew he was tough, but damn." He looked up and met her eyes. "We can't… not with what's out there."

Doc sighed and ran her hand over her face. "I'm surprised his lung hasn't collapsed." She looked toward Dean and Sam's back as he remained seated on the bed. She stood and reached into her bag for a roll of athletic tape. "I'm going to tape his ribs, try and stabilize them without restricting lung function."

Sam stood and walked around the bed to face Doc and Bobby. "What if it does?"

"Sit – I think you've got enough to worry about right now," Doc ordered, and motioned for Bobby to help her.

Sam did as instructed and watched both Bobby and Doc tape Dean's rips. He had awoken through the process and with encouragement from Booby had remained still and let them do what was needed. Sweat had collected on Dean's brow by the time they had finished. Exhausted, he had quickly succumbed to sleep.

"I'm going to run back to my clinic and run this blood-work," She turned toward Sam and patted his leg. "He allergic to anything? Antibiotics? Pain medications?"

Sam shook his head. "No."

"I'll start him on an antibiotic drip — I'm concerned that pneumonia is dogging his heels and pneumonia with broken ribs," she shook her head and grasped Bobby's shoulder as she walked toward the door, "is more than what we can manage."

Bobby nodded. "What else?"

Doc took a deep breath and scratched the back of her neck. "Get him stripped down, cleaned up, and keep him warm. Wrap his wrists — not tight, but use some of that healing ointment. It'll take about 45 minutes to run the blood work." She looked at her watch. "I'll be back in about an hour. If something comes up, call me." She grabbed her muck boots, coveralls, and X-ray machine. "I won't be long."

A cool breeze entered the room as she left, and the draperies fluttered for a moment before returning to their previous positions. Sam remained seated, hands clasped and head bowed. Bobby sighed and folded his fingers together behind his neck and took a deep breath before lowering his hands and looking at Sam's back.

They knew the risks. There was a long history of hunters and their untimely deaths. It was just a part of the job. Knowing it, living with it, and seeing it was different — it always had been. But this wasn't an attack on a hunter, it wasn't associated with a creature of the night or something of the paranormal. It was human. It was twisted, wrong, underhanded, secretive, and cruel on a level beyond the paranormal.

"You alright?"

"No," Sam said and rubbed his face and stood. He walked around the bed and grabbed the scissors from the medical bag.

Dean opened half hooded eyes and looked toward the wall in front of the bed. He swallowed, Adam's apple bobbled, and he winced. He gasped as injuries flared and he pressed his left hand to his side as ribs ignited in pain. He felt someone grab his left hand.

"Hey," Sam said, "it's okay, Dean, it's just Bobby and me." Sam met Dean's eyes as he turned toward him. "You with me, big brother." Sam forced a smile and rubbed the tissue between Dean's thumb and finger.

"Yeah," Dean said, his voice lost behind the oxygen mask.

"Good to see you, kid," Bobby said, and remained standing at the end of the bed, arms crossed, the bill of his hat pushed back. "You're literally bruised from head to foot." He raised his eyebrows.

Dean lifted his right hand a few inches in acknowledgement, but closed his eyes as exhaustion claimed him once again.

Sam and Bobby went to work and striped Dean down, covered him with blankets, cleaned the blood from his face, neck, and scalp. Bobby carefully cleaned and bandaged the damaged tissue on Dean's wrists and wiped his hands free of the dirt and blood. They tossed his clothes into the garbage. Checked his vitals, and tried to make him as comfortable as possible. Dean remained deathly still as the night grew long.

Sam too a seat on the floor between the beds, shins pressed against Dean's bed frame, back pressed against his own. Bobby had moved to the table and sat with his back to the door. He kept watch, and listed for Doc's return.

"What are we doing, Bobby?" Sam asked, he shifted, placed his arms on his knees, pressed his hands above his ears, and laced his fingers through his hair. "Does any of this really help? Hunting for things that have been here for generations?"

Bobby sighed and flipped his fingers through the images of the previous victims. "Hell, I can't answer that, Sam." He scratched the stubble at his chin and looked toward the bed. He leaned forward, rested his elbows on the table and wished for a beer. "I've seen — hell I've known — people who have wilted away sitting at desks all day — sellin' their souls for promotions and pay raises an' there weren't any demons involved… no spirits, or ghouls," he took a deep breath, "just ego, pride, an' greed."

Sam nodded. "There's nothing wrong with wanting to get ahead."

"Nope," Bobby agreed. "Not until you get stabbed in the back or stab someone."

"Not every job is like that."

"No, but there are risks to every job — they may not be obvious, but they're there." Bobby leaned back and kept his right elbow on the table. "You think law will suite you better?"

Sam chuckled. "No," he turned slightly toward Bobby, "but I wouldn't be in a hotel room watching my brother fight to survive."

Bobby shook his head and moved a picture on the table. "No... maybe a weekly phone call listenin' to him fight to keep a garage business runnin' is more up your ally?"

"That's not what I meant."

"Grass is always greener, Sam." Bobby yawned and shifted in his seat as his belly grumbled.

Sam sighed, rubbed his forehead, and glanced at the shadows that crossed Dean's face, neck, and arms. He was so still, though Sam could see the rise and fall of Dean's chest he could also hear the cracking of fluid on his lungs as he breathed. They'd been knocked down before, dangerously so, but this time they were on their own – no hospital, no emergency room, no shots of adrenalin. What if Dean took a turn for the worst, what if he couldn't fight off a bout of pneumonia, a collapsed lung, or worse? Sam sighed, and rubbed his face.

Was this life the life they really wanted to be living, or was this a life that had been chosen for them?

"I want to have kids," Sam said with a long sigh, "I want to teach them how to play basketball, and… I want to sit at a kitchen table and help them with their homework. I want to bitch about having to clean out the gutters and mow the lawn — I want to marry a woman who loves the fact that I can be an asshole — someone who'll let me." He shrugged. "Hell, Bobby... want to my kids to have cousins... and an uncle who gives wedgies and zerberts."

Bobby nodded and thought about his own life. "You're not alone, Sam, you just..." he paused and scratched his chin, "you just have to find a way to make it happen."

Sam clenched his jaw and sighed. "I won't raise my kids like dad raised us, Bobby — hotel to hotel, different school to different school, eating out of vending machines and fast food restaurants – never knowing if he was coming home or if he was dead somewhere..." he paused and picked at the dirt beneath his nails, "or watching him drink to forget the things he'd seen... and done."

"Your dad did the best he could," Bobby said and tried to find the right things to say. "He taught you boys how to fight the things he had to learn about... he was raisin' two kids and huntin' the thing that killed your ma, and he did it to protect you both."

"Doesn't make it any easier."

"No, can't imagine it does." He stood suddenly when an engine quit and was followed by the sound of a door slamming shut. "Doc's back." He peered through the window draperies and then opened the door in time to let her enter.

"How's he doing?" she asked, and tossed her jacket onto the chair Bobby had vacated, and placed a bag of food on the table. She walked to the bed and took a seat as Sam pushed himself off the floor and onto the bed behind him. Doc increased the drip of the IV, injected an antibiotic into the catheter, and then took his pulse.

"He's been quiet for the last half hour or so." Sam said.

"Given the situation I'm not surprised he's been in an out of consciousness." She pulled the blankets up on his side enough to expose Dean's hip and she checked the bruising before she released the them and pressed her hand to his forehead. "I grabbed some food for you." She checked the bandages around Dean's wrists and turned toward Sam. "I want you to eat and get some rest. Your brother's not going anywhere, and he seems to be stabilizing." She lowered Dean's left wrist back to the bed and rubbed his arm before turning to look at Sam.

Bobby dug through the bag and grabbed a bottle of green juice and handed it to Sam who shifted his position on the bed, slightly elevated by two pillows. He kicked stocking feet up on the bed and crossed his ankles. He was halfway through the bottle when he dosed off. Doc grabbed the bottle from slack fingers and set it on the nightstand before pulling the blankets up and over Sam.

"You doing okay?" Doc asked and looked toward Bobby. She took a seat at the table across from him as he dug into the bag and pulled out some food.

"I'm not as young as I used to be," Bobby sighed and took a pull from his beer and then a bite from his sandwich. He raised his eyebrows and rolled his eyes. "I'm fine... at least for now."

Doc smiled and together they finished the potato salad, turkey sandwiches, and beer. The bathroom light had been turned on and the other lights turned off to allow Dean and Sam darkness to sleep in. A rain storm had started again, but the sound of rain hitting the pavement and roof became comforting as the night wore on. Sam turned, pulled the blankets up to his shoulders and dug his head deeper onto his pillow. Quickly, his breathing evened out and sleep reclaimed him.

Bobby took a long pull from his beer, placed the glass on the table and twisted it against the veneer. "I can't thank you enough," he said, and looked toward the window that had been reopened a crack.

"My life has been full of dog sprays and preg-checks," Doc chuckled, "I needed the excitement – not this much though." She shook her head and sighed.

Bobby nodded and rubbed his face. He looked toward Sam, and then Dean, and twisted the bottle again.

"I've known you a long time, Bobby." She paused. "Why didn't you ever have kids?" Doc asked as she leaned back and placed her right foot on Sam's bed.

"Couldn't — we tried," Bobby smiled, "boy did we try." He chuckled and then shrugged and looked again toward Dean and Sam. "Karen wanted boys," he smiled and met Doc's eyes, "she, ah, had a way about her." Bobby grew quiet and ran his finger along the glass of his beer. "She'd have made a good mom — you would've liked her." He crossed his arms over his chest and cleared his throat.

"First time I met both those boys," Bobby shook his head, "they were tough little shits — and Dean," he pursed his lips, "I'd never met a kid more protective of his brother — or his dad."

Bobby leaned back and took a deep breath. "They were hard — like they'd been chewed up and spit out so many times they just didn't know who to trust but themselves." He licked his bottom lip. "Hell, I've seen codependency up close before but those two take it to a whole new level… I blame John for that."

"Codependency?" Doc raised her eyebrows.

Bobby chucked. "Yeah, I've read a book or two."

"John their dad?"

Bobby nodded. "Tough sonofabitch, but…" he sighed and frowned. "John only brought the boys by a few times when they were young… Dean mostly came with his dad, learnin' the trade. I'd hoped there for a while that Sam might get out." He raised his eyebrows and shrugged. "Do something with his life other than fight monsters… then he and Dean showed up at my door when a case went south."

Bobby scratched his forehead as he leaned back with a frown. "I think somethin' happened to Dean when he was young — not sure if it was the death of his mother or somethin' else, but he's got this pent up anger inside him… I've seen it up close a few times… an' it scares me." He met Doc's eyes. "I ain't sure where it comes from.

"The first time his dad dropped him and Sam off at my place when they just yea high," He raised his hand a couple feet off the floor, "I caught Dean beatin' the shit out of moldy bag of pellets — he was just red in the face angry — could hardly get him to take breath he was so mad," Bobby shook his head, "I couldn't figure out why at the time," he ran a hand over his face, "but I caught him salt and burn the remains of a puppy later that night. He was just stone cold doin' it and hell, I thought I had the next Green River killer on my hands…" he shrugged and clenched his jaw, "then I found a box with a blanket, dog toy, and biscuit hidden in my shop.

"Kid hasn't liked animals since." Bobby took a deep breath and rubbed his fingers over his mouth. "Their dad... he was a good man," he shook his head, "but he took those boys — Dean in particular for granted, put too much on 'em when they were way too young."

"They're not kids anymore." Doc shifted and glanced toward the IV bag.

"They are to me… always will be. As far as I'm concerned they're the sons I never got to have." He met Doc's eyes. "Which is why I owe you for this."

"You don't owe me anything." Doc stood and rubbed the back of her thighs before moving back toward the Dean to change the IV bag. "You would have made a great father," she turned back toward Bobby.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

Sam awoke with a jolt. He sat up, rubbed his face and then looked toward his brother who continued to sleep. Dean had been covered with more blankets during the night and the IV bag had been changed. Sam looked toward the window and found Bobby sleeping in the chair, bill of his cap shadowed his eyes, feet kicked up on the edge of the bed, arms crossed over his chest. He snored which was followed by a high pitched whistle as he breathed. Sunlight crept through the narrow gap of the draperies, and dust particles danced in the air and reflected off the beam. The table had been cleaned, garbage thrown out, and the smell of medical antiseptics had faded.

Sam shifted, shoved the blankets off, and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He stretched, arched his back and then sighed. He stood and carefully pressed his fingers to Dean's neck. With a deep breath, Sam relaxed and then walked to the bathroom to relieve himself. He grabbed a fresh set of clothes and a towel before disappearing into the bathroom for a quick shower.

Stress had a way of manifesting in ways that Sam was still learning to recognize. Muscles protested and then relaxed as hot water pooled over his shoulders. Dirt circled the drain along with Dean's blood, blood Sam didn't realize he had been coated in. He ran his hands over his face and allowed water to collect in his mouth before he spit. His stomach growled, but he ignored it as he lathered his head, allowed the suds to trail down his body, and he allowed the stress from the past few days to circle the drain.

Bobby was right. All jobs had risks. How Sam chose to live his life was his and his alone, and right now his job was hunting monsters. Sam shrugged as he slipped his jeans on. Was his job and life different? Sure. Risky? Absolutely. But he worked with his brother, and alongside others who had a code that they followed. They could pick their jobs, chose to fight the way they wanted, and fight alongside those they trusted.

Sam clenched his jaw as he towel dried his hair. He tossed the damp towel over the top of the shower rod and slipped into a clean shirt. He heard the coffee maker going.

Sam chuckled when he stepped out of the bathroom and found Bobby sitting at the end of his bed eating stale chips.

"Hey," Sam said, and stepped passed Bobby. Sam pressed his hand to Dean's forehead. "He's still warm."

Bobby nodded. "Doc had an emergency, somethin' about a cow prolapsing. Said she'd be back." He stood and grabbed his jacket. "I'm goin' to go grab us some food." He grabbed the keys off the dresser. "Want anythin'?"

"Triple espresso would hit the spot," Sam took a seat on his bed, and turned toward Bobby. "What I really want is a big Denver omelet, a bowl of sliced fruit, and toast with homemade jam."

Bobby raised his eyebrows and muttered something under his breath has he left.

Sam curled his lips into a smile and slipped his socks on. He paused his movements and rested his elbows on his knees and watched his brother's chest rise and fall. Dean still lay on his back, pillows shoved behind him to keep his chest elevated. Bruising was more evident as the sun's light peeked in through the narrow gap of the draperies. The mottled blacks, blues, and purples decorated his left arm from his elbow to his shoulder. Though the colors were starting to turn, the intense bruising was enough to cause Sam's gut to wrench. Dean's breaths sounded better, but the crackle of liquid in his lungs caused Sam to sigh. A bottle of antibiotic rested on the nightstand with a new syringe. Dean's fight wasn't over, not by a long shot.

Sam stood and shifted to sit beside his brother when Dean moved his left hand, just a twitch, but enough to pull Sam from his thoughts. He rubbed his face and then pressed his right hand to Dean's forehead again and checked for a fever. He looked like shit, dark circles darkened his eyes, the cut above his brow had been bandaged but bruising peeked from beneath it, his pale skin amplified his serious condition, and four day's worth of stubble shadowed his jaw and upper lip. He'd finally succumb to sleep after waking briefly during the night.

Sam clenched his jaw and looked toward the table and noticed the journal had been left next to his computer. He stood, grabbed the heavy oversized book and took a seat and started to flip through the pages. He ran his fingers over the hand written notes, some in Gallic, Welsh, German, Italian, and a few sentences in Aramaic. The journal was old, and the talisman branded onto Dean's shoulder had been branded onto the leather cover of the book. Blood stains, ink smears, and water marks decorated the pages like age did the paper. It was old, but carefully constructed and organized by hunters who had come before them. Sam ran his fingers over the hand sketched image of a vampire, short fangs contradicted traditional lore and embraced the historical accuracy of their existence. The detail was nearly perfect, and the ink melded into the paper in narrow to thick strokes.

Sam flipped to the back of the book and removed the silver dagger that had been carefully placed in within the pages. The detailed carving was interwoven with gold, and eight gems could be seen at the flared tips at each point of the cross on each side. The rubies glowed beneath the sunlight and Sam held the dagger, surprised by its weight. The silver was old but recently polished and the blade sharpened. He looked up when Bobby entered the room with two coffees and a bag of food.

Bobby nodded, locked the door, and handed Sam his coffee. Bobby glanced toward the bed before taking a seat at the table across from Sam. "We may need to get your brother out of here quicker than I thought," he said, and scratched his jaw. He pointed toward the window and leaned forward. "There's a van parked across the street — first noticed it last night."

Sam sighed and placed the journal and blade on the table. "We need a few days, Bobby," he ran his hands through his hair, "we can't move him — not yet — not until he's stronger."

Bobby sighed and looked toward Dean. "All the same," he looked toward Sam, "we should have a plan ready — just in case." Bobby reached into the bag and pulled a Styrofoam container out and pushed it toward Sam, and then grabbed a much healthier version from the bag for himself and shrugged. "I'm not twenty anymore — plus I like beer too much."

Sam nodded and inhaled deeply as he opened the container. His stomach roared in anticipation. They had been so caught up in research, searching for Dean, that everything else became secondary, and that included nourishment and sleep. Sam closed his eyes as he savored the meal and sipped at his espresso. He leaned forward and pushed the drapery back to peek out the window and spotted the van. He turned and glanced toward Dean.

Bobby pushed his tray from the edge of the table and sighed. He looked at Sam and then glanced at the journal. "You look through that?"

Sam nodded and wiped his toast along the inside surface of the tray and finished in one bite. He closed the lid and shoved it into the bag before finishing the last of his coffee. "Not sure what any of it means."

Bobby pulled the book toward himself and glanced through the text and imagery. He ran his fingers beneath the title of the first page and looked at Sam. "This," he pointed toward the text on the first page, "is all in Latin — some of it's familiar," he sighed and flipped through a few more pages. "I think this is an instruction manual." Bobby frowned and looked at the imagery, and while he could understand a few words it wasn't enough to come to a conclusion. "It's old, though... older than I'd be willin' to bet." He looked at the dagger and admired the detailed carving by running his thumb over the surface.

Bobby paused a moment and frowned before flipping back to the first page of the journal. "Knights of the Order," he said and scooted to the edge of his chair. He rubbed his temple and paused a moment as the he remembered his classes from childhood. "Or maybe the Order of Knights?" he questioned himself and looked toward Sam. "It was always told as fiction," he said, and ran his finger along the gold embroidery on the dagger.

Sam sighed and shook his head. "Bobby?"

"Old stories of Knights ordained to hunt monsters and creatures — they protected towns and villages from evils and sickness. They were the precursors to the Knights Templar — I," Bobby scratched his head, "don't remember the details. I think I have an old children's book that mentions them."

"You think they were real?" Sam asked and glanced toward Dean before returning his glance toward Bobby.

Bobby ran his hand over the pages of the book. "I don't know," he sighed, "I think that this group — whoever took Dean — is lookin' for original decedents of the Order — like Abby mentioned." He met Sam's eyes. "I think Dean is one of them... he was the only one branded and... he's the only one that survived." He flipped the book closed and ran his hand over the scar on the cover and paused to feel the indentation of leather.

Bobby flipped to the back of the book where the writing had changed from old calligraphy to modern penmanship and ran his finger under a sentence written in German. "This means 'legacy line'," I've seen this before in the writings I have at home — never could make the connection — I always thought it was in reference to the stories..."

Bobby sighed and ran his hand over the pages. "I never thought..." he glanced toward Dean, "I never thought any of those old stories were real." He looked up and met Sam's eyes. "We need to get this translated." He clenched his jaw. "And, we need to get your brother out of here." Bobby peeked out the window toward the van that still hadn't moved and looked back toward the bed.

Sam rubbed his face and looked at the clock. "A few more hours, Bobby, just let him rest a few more hours."

Dean inhaled sharply and swiped at the oxygen mask with his right hand. He hitched his breath and felt muscles, tendons, and bones protest his movements.

"Dean, don't do that," Sam said, and took a seat on the edge of the bed and replaced the mask, "you need it."

Dean looked up through half hooded eyes and swiped at the mask again, sending it off his nose and mouth. It landed with a clap on his left cheek. "What…?" His voice was dry. "Fuck," he muttered and tried to lick his lips.

Sam carefully slipped the mask from Dean's head and rested it on the pillow next to him. "You in any pain?" Sam pressed his hand to Dean's forehead.

Dean raised his eyebrows and rolled his eyes. Fuck yes, but he'd never admit it. "Thirsty," he said and closed his eyes for a moment. He felt the bed shift, then heard water being poured into a cup. He opened his eyes when the bed shifted at his hip and Sam retook his seat. Dean made a move to sit up, but yelped, grasped his left side, and fell back against the pillows. He caught his breath in his throat and clenched his jaw as he rode out the pain. "Sonofabitch," he said through clenched teeth, and slowly exhaled.

Sam slid his right hand beneath Dean's head and gently lifted enough for him to take a few swallows. "You remember what happened?" He placed the plastic cup on the end table and watched Dean roll his eyes beneath closed lids.

Dean covered his eyes and rubbed his temples with his right hand, memories flooded. He remembered the fear of not knowing what was happening, murmurs of voices, the sounds of footsteps up and down stairs, the smell of old damp wood and dirt, the hands that had grabbed him, and not being able to see anything. Saliva filled his mouth, his stomach burned, and Dean swallowed. "I'm…" he paused, "I'm gonna be sick."

Sam grabbed the garbage can just in time as Dean surged to his left to vomit. He coughed, dry heaved, and groaned through the pain as he hung over the edge of the bed. Muscles shook from the strain, and his ribs ignited in protest. He felt hands on his shoulders and his forehead and he struggled through the involuntary convulsions of his chest and stomach. He gasped and groaned through the last bout and fell back against the pillows drenched in sweat. He shivered as the air nipped at his skin.

Sam set the garbage can by the bed and grabbed a damp washcloth. He placed it on Dean's brow and again took a seat on the edge of his bed. "You okay?"

Dean swallowed, shut his eyes, and worked to control his breathing. "Gi'me a minute."

Sam nodded and stood. "Bobby and I found you about twenty miles out of town." He rubbed his face and moved to the adjacent bed and took a seat.

"Bobby's here?"

"Yeah." Sam turned toward the door and then looked back at Dean who couldn't hide the shaking of his hands as he pulled the blankets toward his chest. "I called him after they took you… They sabotaged the car, they knew who you were, and how to find you—"

"Who?" Dean asked and frowned. He rubbed his brow and grabbed the cloth to wipe his eyes.

"Still trying to figure that out — looks like it might be a group of descendants of some... Nights Order — Bobby and I are still trying to figure it out. We think it's a group trying to locate direct lineage to the original bloodline." Sam chuckled when Dean cocked an eyebrow. "I know, but... whoever this is," he shrugged, "killed five men and damn near killed you."

"Why didn't they… kill me?" Dean pressed his hand to his left side and felt the tape covering his ribs. "How many?" he asked with a clenched jaw.

Sam raised his eyebrows. "Three – Doc says you're at risk for a collapsed lung so you need to take it easy for a while."

Dean sighed and then struggled to sit up.

"Dean! What in the hell did I just tell you. You need to stay down, let your body heal —" Sam stood and made a motion to push Dean back onto the bed, but instead helped him sit up. "Dean, seriously, you've got to —"

"I gotta piss, Sam." Dean sighed, shoulders tight, hands clenched on the edge of the mattress. He closed his eyes and took short deliberate breaths. "How long..." he looked up and met Sam's eyes, "How long 'ave I been down?"

"Eighteen hours," Sam said, and sighed. "I'll get you a bottle to piss in."

Dean looked up and pressed his right hand to his ribs and shook his head, his left still grasping the blankets against the edge of the bed. He closed his eyes and worked to get his equilibrium back. He felt weak, disconnected, and helpless. "No—"

"We used to do it all the time—"

"We were kids —" Dean winced and started to pull the blanket from around his waist. "What the fuck, Sam?" He looked up, eyebrows raised.

Sam rolled his eyes, stood, and walked toward Dean's duffle bag for an extra pair of boxers. "You're an idiot for doing this — pushing yourself like this — shit, Dean, you could puncture a lung."

Dean winced but maintained his posture.

Sam handed Dean his boxers. "You need some help?"

Dean grabbed the boxers and took a breath, he winced when his ribs protested but fought through it.

"I'm gonna grab a new garbage bag from housekeeping," Sam said, "If I come back and you're bare ass naked on the floor with a punctured lung I'm hauling your sorry ass to the hospital – without your clothes." He paused at the door and turned with a sigh. "I should change your bandages when I get back." He opened the door and left.

Dean sighed, tossed his boxers to the floor and used his foot to dig for the leg holes. Wincing, he grabbed the waistband and slowly stood. He placed his left hand on the wall to steady himself, and then yanked the IV from his arm. Muscled protested as he shuffled to the bathroom. He paused, catching sight of the bruising around his left arm, shoulder, chest, disappearing beneath his boxers and reappearing again on his thigh and finally ending near his ankle.

Once he finished he washed his hands and tentatively drank a sip of coffee, testing his stomach as he shuffled back to the room like a 90 year-old man missing his walker. He grabbed his jeans from the duffle and slowly and painfully maneuvered them on. Exhausted, he sat on the end of the bed, sweat dotted his brow and his hands shook. He looked toward the cup of water on the nightstand and sighed when he realized the effort was too much. He looked up as the door opened when Sam reentered with a new plastic garbage bag and Bobby on his heels.

"Good to see you up," Bobby said and set the food on the table. "You sure as shit look better now that you did a day ago." He grabbed himself a beer out of the bag, popped the lid, and took a swig.

"Toss me one of those," Dean said.

"No," Bobby and Sam said in unison.

Bobby reached into the bag and pulled out a bottle of Pedialyte and handed it to Dean.

"Seriously?" Dean took the bottle.

"You exhausted yourself puttin' on a pair of jeans," Bobby raised his eyebrows, "put your big girl panties on and drink it, kid."

Sam dug through Doc's medical bag and pulled out some bandages, tape, and healing cream. He took a seat behind Dean and carefully removed the bandage covering his lower spine. He ignored Dean's flinch. The bruising had darkened in the center, but the edges were transitioning from dark blue to greens and yellows. Sam applied cream to the wound and bandaged it before moving to the one on Dean's left scapula.

"How bad?" Dean asked and winced when the tape was pulled from his skin.

"Looks like it's healing fast," Sam said as he pulled the bandage off the burn and winced. He glanced toward Bobby who shook his head and took another pull from his beer. The brand had sealed, skin tight around the burn, and it still seeped, but the redness had dissipated. "This hurt?"

Dean swallowed, closed his eyes, and nodded. "Yeah."

Sam clenched his jaw and applied the cream.

"What's it look like?" Dean asked. "It's a brand right?" He sighed. "Feels like a burn."

"Yeah."

"Please tell me it's not a dick," Dean said, "I don't want a dick branded on my shoulder — that would be, you know, bad for business — totally send the wrong message."

Sam forced a smile, Dean had a way of blending fear with humor, and while at times it was annoying it was also his way of coping. "It's a talisman."

"Care to elaborate?"

Sam took a deep breath and swallowed. "It's a version of the Knights Templar talisman for the protection from evil." He thought about taking a picture with his phone but decided against it. "It's a cross, all four points are flared, it's covering a book or shield with some kind of engraving — it's about the size of your palm — maybe a bit smaller."

Dean nodded, opened his left hand and hand his fingers across his palm. He inhaled and took a sip from the bottle of Pedialyte as he felt the bandage reapplied.

Sam got to his feet and grabbed one of Dean's shirts. "We should check your ribs."

"Ribs are fine." Dean said and snapped his shirt away from Sam harsher than he had intended.

"Sure they are," Sam said and took a seat across from Bobby who chuckled.

Dean grasped the fabric and rested the shirt on his lap. He leaned to his right, and tried to take the pressure off his left side and then winced when he leaned too far. He clenched his jaw when he felt his shirt pulled from his lap and Sam helped him maneuver into the sleeves of the flannel. "Thanks," he said, and straightened his spine.

"Think you could handle a few hours in the car?" Sam asked and glanced toward Bobby.

Dean swallowed and raised his eyebrows. "You got a girl after you?" He curled his lips into a smile, but it never reached his eyes.

Sam squatted in front of Dean and shook his head. "Bobby and I think it would be best if we got you out of town — at least until we can figure out who took you and why." He stood and grabbed his travel bag and started to toss his clothes into it.

A knock at the door caused both Bobby and Sam to stand and with their weapons drawn. Dean jumped, but gasped when his ribs protested to the movement and he sank back down to the bed. Bobby peeked out the curtain and sighed.

"It's Doc." Bobby shoved his weapon back into the waistband of his pants and watched Sam do the same as he reached for the door. "Hey gorgeous," he said as he opened the door.

Doc sighed as she entered the room, "You sound like an old pervert when you talk like that." She grasped his arm as she slipped past him and looked at her patient. "You should be in bed"

Bobby sighed and shut the door. He looked toward Sam who chuckled.

Doc walked toward her medical bag and grabbed her tape. "Any dizziness? Vomiting?" She turned toward Dean and grabbed a chair to sit across from him.

"He vomited earlier," Sam said, and shrugged when Dean rolled his eyes and shook his head.

"Blood?' Doc asked and looked toward Sam.

"No, just a little water and dry heaves."

"Ouch." Doc winced and shifted to sit beside Dean and she pulled his shirt up his back to take a look at his injuries. He shuttered a grasped knee. "You alright?" she asked, and paused in her movements until he nodded. "You really need to take it easy for a few days. Feel any sharp pains?" She gently palpated the area around his back.

"No," Dean hissed and shifted to his right as she pulled back the skirt of his shirt to look at his ribs.

"When I first saw you I thought for sure you were a goner," she shifted back to her seat and gently touched his skin just past the length of the tape, "thought you had a pneumothorax caused from a punctured lung, possible bruised heart, ruptured spleen and a possible ruptured kidney," she looked up at him, "any blood in your urine?"

Dean shook his head, not trusting his voice.

Doc nodded and gently lowered his shirt and rubbed his shoulder before she pulled a couple long strips of tape from her role. "I'm going to reinforce the binding to your ribs," she said, "you'll need to make sure to take deep breathes throughout the day, expand your lungs as much as possible." She pushed the flank of his shirt away from his ribs and carefully applied the tape. "I can still hear fluid on your lungs, so make sure you finish the antibiotics – you're not out of the woods yet."

Doc looked toward Sam and then Bobby. "I've patched up enough hunters to know that most of them are like dogs with porcupines — they either learn the first time or they become repeat offenders." She pulled Dean's shirt back around his chest, and then stood. "You should be in bed resting." She pulled a few bundles of tape from her medical bag, a bottle of antibiotics and pain medications from her pocket. "Ten days of the antibiotics — no exceptions. Do not," Doc looked toward Dean, who was in no condition to listen, to Sam who took the bottles, "overdose these — it's Tramadol for pain. An overdose will cause respiratory distress and he's in no condition to combat a threat like that."

Sam nodded and shoved the bottles into his pocket.

"Keep an eye him. Any dizziness, unexplained vomiting, headaches or blood in his urine — get him to a doctor. She piled the tape and a few bandages onto the bed and zipped her medical bag closed. She looked at her watch and sighed. "I'm due out at the Weston farm." She placed her hand on Dean's shoulder. "Get back to bed — you're still at risk for puncturing a lung and if you keep pushing yourself you'll end up with pneumonia."

Sam stood and shook Doc's hand. "I can't thank you enough."

Doc grabbed his left arm and squeezed. "Take care of your brother."

"I'll walk you out," Bobby said as he followed her.

Sam paused and then looked at Dean who hadn't moved since he had first taken a seat. "You can't get up, can you?"

Dean shook his head and clenched his jaw, but remained seated. He watched Sam shove the supplies into his bag, his computer, an unfamiliar journal, and files. He cleaned off the table, returned the lamp to the end table and then tossed garbage into the bag. Sam then grabbed Dean's bag, grabbed a pair of socks, and then zipped it closed.

Sam squatted in front of Dean again. "We need to get you out of here," he looked toward the door and unfolded the socks. "I'm going to help you get your shoes on and then Bobby and I will get you to the car." He turned suddenly when Bobby reentered the room.

"Doc's goin' to help buy us some time," he said and cleared his throat. He grabbed Dean's boots and handed them to Sam, then grabbed the luggage and keys to the Impala. "I'll be back in a minute."

Sam nodded and slipped Dean's feet into his socks and then his boots. Sam turned when the door opened and Bobby stepped back into the room.

"There's an old hunter's cabin about three hours west of here, tough to get to, but you'll be safe up there for a while — 'til Dean can get back on his feet." Bobby took another look around the room and grabbed his canvas duffle bag and tossed it over his shoulder. "I'm gonna stick around here a few days –- see if I can learn anything more about these groups. I'll stop by the cabin when I get done here."

"Think there's more here than what we've already learned?" Sam said, and took a step toward Dean's right side.

"There's always more –- just need to learn where to find it." Bobby sighed and looked toward Dean. "You gonna make it okay... you look like shit?" He looked up and met Sam's eyes.

Dean closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. He grunted when he felt Sam grab his arm and slowly help him to his feet. Dean draped his right arm over Sam's shoulders and looked toward Bobby who didn't look convinced. Dean could feel his strength waning, and he struggled to keep to his feet. He grunted when he motioned for Sam to get him to the car. "We doin' this?"

"Stubborn as hell," Sam said, and helped guide Dean out the door and onto the passenger seat of the Impala. Sam pressed his hand to Dean's forehead and sighed when he slapped Sam's hand away.

Dean closed his eyes and lay his head back. He could still smell the faint odor of shit, but feeling the leather beneath his backside felt like home. He relaxed his shoulders, and felt the sun through the windshield. He never noticed Sam toss a blanket over his lap, or heard the door slam as he dozed off.

Sam shut the passenger side door and turned toward Bobby.

"Take care of your brother," Bobby said, and handed Sam a slip of paper with the directions to the cabin. "I checked her over," he nodded toward the car, "engine looks good and she's full of gas. You run into any trouble, you call me."

"Thanks, Bobby," Sam said and rubbed the back of his neck. "We'll see you in a few days, right?"

Bobby nodded, shifted the bag over his shoulder and took a deep breath. "Work on gettin' that journal translated — see if you can find out who did this… and who we need to watch out for."

Sam nodded and frowned when a police car pulled up behind the white van. Two officers stepped out and detained both the passenger and driver of the van. "Doc's work?'

Bobby laughed and grabbed Sam's shoulder and squeezed. "Get outta here, Sam — stay safe, and I'll see you in a few days." He stepped back as Sam walked around the car, slipped into the driver's seat, and started the ignition.

Sam took a deep breath, waved toward Bobby and then pulled out of the driveway. He looked toward the two men pressed against the back of the van, memorized their features, and pressed the gas with his foot as he drove passed. He glanced toward Dean who slept more peaceful in his damn car than he ever did in a bed. Sam raised his eyebrows, shook his head, and headed west.

End!

For now anyway!


End file.
